


Passerine

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg are in Cahoots, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert Being Lambert (The Witcher), M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pegging, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, Sort Of, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vesemir is So Done (The Witcher), Winter At Kaer Morhen, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “Have you ever given thought about being the one to fuck him?”Jaskier’s breakfast catches and lodges in his throat. They’re alone, thank every fucking god he can think of. He coughs and splutters and just about manages to dislodge it and set his cutlery down before turning, wide-eyed, to the sorceress.Yennefer sits sideways in her chair, facing him, with an elbow resting on the table. She tilts her head in that pondering way that she does, her eyes scrutinising his on where what he’s going to say is a lie or not.She’s serious.“Wh-What?”Yennefer shrugs a shoulder in such a casual way, he’s wondering if he heard her right. But apparently he did because— “He likes it.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 58
Kudos: 633





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative/Working Title: Yennefer of Vengerberg Asks Her Ex's Current Boyfriend Why He Hasn't Topped Him Yet™
> 
> This is filth. Some plot cropped up, but not a lot. As someone who once hated writing smut, and did everything in my power to avoid it, christ alive but my kinks are really showing through here - I mean, geraskier's kinks 👀 the kinks that geraskier has 👀

The weather battering the mountain is as awful as always. Jaskier winces as another gust of wind howls outside, lashing against the keep’s walls and the mountain itself. The forest shrouding the keep shudders with every breeze that blows through. It’s to be a long winter, apparently; one that he’s content to wait out huddled by an ever-lit hearth, nursing a tankard of ale and a bowl of Vesemir’s famous stew, and with a Witcher to keep him warm. They managed to arrive at the keep just before the winds started to pick up. Rain had softened the ground and some of the paths were too treacherous to follow. But they managed, just like they always do. Geralt has been up and down those paths so often, he knows where to step and where to avoid when the trails start to flood and freeze.

Now with Roach settled in her stable for the season, contently munching on hay and oats and a few apples Jaskier snuck to her from the last market they visited, Geralt’s shoulders finally slacken.

It’s a busier keep than usual. Vesemir and his pups, like every season past, huddle in the main hall stoking a fire in the large hearth. Geralt brings Jaskier with him when the Academy decides that they don’t want the bard for the season. That’s what he tells Geralt, anyway. He’s been turning the faculty down for almost three years now, stating that he has more important things to do than to stare back at uninterested students just sitting in classrooms for attendance marks, when their minds are washed with ale and whiskey.

For the past couple of seasons, it’s just been the five of them. Sometimes six, if a Cat from another School follows Lambert up the trails. Vesemir has no qualms with letting the Cat stay; Aiden is kind and respectful, bowing his head and chest to Vesemir before even stepping foot inside of the keep, asking for shelter and not assuming anything. Lambert had rolled his eyes, but Geralt told Jaskier later on that it’s the highest form of respect to ask a School’s head for permission to stay before entering. And Jaskier thinks back on all of the times where he has just strolled right in.

Geralt laughed, one of those breathless ones that rumble through his chest. “It only applies to Witchers from other Schools, lark. He doesn’t mind humans – as long as they behave themselves.” And he’s been nothing _but_ well-behaved ever since Vesemir let him lodge here.

So there’s them, minus a Cat for now as Aiden will join them in a few weeks. And then there’s a sorceress. Jaskier almost chokes on a piece of carrot from his stew at the sight of Yennefer striding into the main hall crowded with wolves and a cub, having conjured a portal outside. As if Yennefer of Vengerberg would trek up all of those muddy and rain-drowned paths in her dress and heeled boots. 

And then there was the girl – the cub, Geralt’s Child Surprise. She came with them this year, sat perched on Roach with Jaskier as they climbed the mountain’s trails. She stays sandwiched in between Geralt and Jaskier, quiet and timid and not looking anywhere else but at the two of them or their food.

As Yennefer sets herself down on one of the couches within the hall, Jaskier manages to clear his throat. It’s going to be a long winter.

* * *

Yennefer is here for Ciri, apparently. Specifically, she’s here to _help_ Ciri with her magic. It’s been sizzling off of the girl ever since Geralt first found her in the woods. Something powerful, something that needs to have a stopper on it so it won’t flow over and drown them all.

Vesemir has Eskel stay close by; not to keep an eye on the sorceress, or anything, but just to help. Eskel is the most adept with signs, and if something were to go wrong or some magical force were to lash out, he’s there to temper the worst of the damage.

Jaskier eyes the lesson; they’ve taken a corner of the library, surrounded with every sort of book the three of them could find about ancient magic. Yennefer knew of Pavetta, or at least, heard the rumour that at the engagement, the crown princess unleashed a storm inside of the throne room when enraged and distraught.

Geralt stands nearby, dutifully holding out his arms for Jaskier to pile books into. They’re a couple of aisles away, hidden from view. Vesemir’s library has so many worn tomes in it, Jaskier will never get through them all. But he’s keen to try.

“How’s she doing, do you know?” Jaskier whispers. It’s pointless, really. Eskel’s hearing is as good as any Witcher’s, and even making a conscious effort to keep his voice down, Jaskier has never been quiet.

Geralt hums. Even though he spends his hours with Jaskier, either trailing after the bard to make sure he doesn’t get lost in the many hallways entangled around the keep, or just to burrow next to him in front of the hearth in the main hall, he does keep an eye on Ciri.

Words have slowly come to her. She talks to Yennefer – whether it’s because Yennefer is a woman, and the rest of them aren’t, no one is sure, but that’s possibly the case. And while Yennefer is _terrifying_ and could curse him into a goat for even looking at her funny – and she _has_ threatened him with that before – her eyes do turn kind and soft where the girl is concerned.

Maybe she would have been a good mother.

Geralt looks down at his arms. “Is this enough?”

Jaskier snorts. “No, there’s a first edition copy of Verdan’s _The Great Cintran Romantic Poets_ down here,” the bard says, turning on his heel and striding further down the aisle. Geralt sighs, but follows.

* * *

“So,” Yennefer drawls, circling around him as he sits outside on the grass, “you and Geralt seem to be doing well.”

Jaskier just about manages to still his fingers on the strings of his lute, not letting himself snag a sour note. He looks up at the sorceress. It’s one of the nicer days, with the sun out, but a bitter wind still tumbles through the keep and its walls. She’s haloed in bright sunlight, so he has to squint to look up at her. In the end, he just turns back to his lute and his notebook and scribbles something that looks faintly like a few notes. “Yeah,” he shrugs, because what else does one say to something like that – to your current lover’s ex, even.

Yennefer hums, looking up to the sky. A few white clouds hang about, idly moved along by a passing breeze. Her black hair tumbles down her shoulders and back, soft waves that glisten in the sun. She’s beautiful, don’t get him wrong. If they were both anyone else, he might have entertained the thought of asking her for a kiss. He’s not going to sit here and think she would have ever allowed him into her bed. He’d be living out the rest of his days as a tree in the Sodden forest before that ever happens.

“He apologised then?”

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his throat. He doesn’t need to ask _what for_? “He did.”

“Good.” Yennefer folds her arms, staving off a nipping chill that rushes through the courtyard. “Did he grovel or was it more of a ‘hmm, sorry’ affair?”

Jaskier arches an eyebrow, finally looking up at her again. “What’s it to you?”

“Because he cut me on that mountain too,” she says easily, but her eyes tell something else. “And he just apologised to me.”

“Did he grovel?” Jaskier lifts his chin. “Or was it a ‘hmm, sorry’ affair?”

Yennefer’s lip curls into a smile. “The latter,” she says, “the awkward git. More of a mutter really. Had to get him to repeat himself.”

He can’t stop the small, light laugh that huffs out of him. Of course she did. If Geralt of Rivia is going to apologise to Yennefer of Vengerberg then he’s going to do it properly and annunciate his damn words.

Geralt grovelled with him. Or as much as a grovel as the stoic and _awkward_ the Witcher is able to manage. He can still see the Witcher’s eyes, at the tears that wanted to fall but didn’t. He was so tired, worn from the road and harbouring a Child Surprise with him. And just as soon as Ciri was put to bed in Jaskier’s bought room for the night, letting the Witcher have his time to say what he needed to say, Jaskier’s throat tightened at how emotional the emotionally constipated Witcher looked.

Not that he would ever divulge that to Yennefer. She might kill him, or make fun of him; and honestly, he can’t tell which is worse at this stage.

Jaskier turns back to his lute and his notebook, mumbling lyrics and new melodies that come to him with every passing wind. He scratches out most of it, wincing when nothing really sounds right.

And Yennefer...doesn’t go away. Her presence is looming and shadowing at the best of times, but she’s quite literally casting him into a shadow where she’s standing, revelling in how the small streaks of sun feel on her face. “Stop thinking so much, bard,” she eventually mutters, “you’re ruining my sun.”

“The sun feels just as nice over there,” he nods to the other side of the yard. “Or on the battlements. Or on the balcony of your own room.” _Anywhere else but here_.

“But _you’re_ here, bard, and I needed some company,” she sighs half-contently. She peers down at him with one lilac eye, watching him closely. “If I’m to be held within a keep full of brooding Witchers then I might as well make a friend.”

He _does_ actually snag a sour note at that. “Friend?”

“It’s either you or the child, don’t flatter yourself.” Yennefer hums. “Though she is delightful company. The stories she’s been telling me about you and Geralt. You’re both so sweet.”

They’re careful to keep most things away from Ciri. When they room together in inns, there’s a strict _no sex_ policy, even if it makes Geralt grumpier than usual. Being that pent up isn’t good for anyone, especially not a Witcher famous for his capabilities in the bedroom.

But she probably has seen them kiss; pecks on the lips or lingering, warm kisses Geralt likes to place on his temple whenever they part in the markets to gather supplies. Then he couldn’t deny that they were together to her. For being so young, the gremlin is deceivingly observant.

Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of muffled chatter. Lambert and Eskel march out into the arena; nothing more than a dirt circle with a few training mannequins to the sides. Ciri follows, her sparring sword buckled and sheathed to her side. She’s too old for a wooden sword – the ones that Vesemir gave each of his pups when they were barely as tall as his hip. But there was no way in every hell imaginable that Geralt was going to let Ciri have a real, steel sword. No fucking way. So she settled with a sparring one instead; still made of steel, but with dulled edges that _will_ hurt if a blow is landed correctly, but at no threat of drawing any blood or slicing off a limb.

He gathers his lute and notebook, swaddling them into his arms before scurrying off to the nearby forge. It looks out on to the arena, and Jaskier made Ciri a promise that he would watch her training sessions as much as possible. She’s proud of what she’s picked up even within the last few days; pirouetting and holding her stances even when Eskel and Lambert come barrelling towards her ready to strike. She even managed to land a hit on Lambert – something Jaskier isn’t quite happy to let the Witcher live down yet. He’s waiting for the day she’s going to knock him on his ass. And on that day, he’ll write a song about it and swarm Ciri in hugs and anything she likes, food, bath oils or lotions, anything. _The Lion Cub and the Red Wolf_.

Ciri beams as brightly as the sun when she spots him taking his usual perch by the forge, happy to let the embers keep him warm as he looks out on to the arena. She unsheathes her sparring sword and a familiar ache tightens his stomach. Soon that sparring sword will be replaced by a real one, and all of the things that they’re hiding from up here will come for her.

 _No, stop_ , some voice in his head scolds. It sounds remarkably like Geralt. _She’ll be okay. Don’t worry yourself about it now. Enjoy the sun_.

Eskel is up first, correcting Ciri’s hold on the pommel of her sword. He reaches for her fingers, prying them apart from each other and loosening her grip. “It’s not a battleaxe, little cub,” he grins. She’s stopped being afraid of his scars, and his mood has only glowed since she started looking him in the eye and not at the side of his face.

Ciri huffs, but listens. A granddaughter of Calanthe of Cintra through and through. She’s had some schooling with swordplay; her grandmother would have seen to it. But fighting against a Witcher, and all of the monsters just outside of the keep’s walls, mean she’ll have to learn new things.

Lambert strides into the ring, letting his sword drop by his side. He doesn’t fall into a stance or parry like Geralt or Eskel would. But each of them has their own styles of fighting and staying alive. And Lambert is just as cocky here as he is without his sword.

Ciri watches Lambert, tilting her head to follow his movements around the outside of the ring.

Jaskier barely notices Yennefer taking up a seat beside him on the edge of the forge. The embers warm their backs and keep the worst of the chill at bay.

Lambert swings for Ciri, a broad lunge that the girl easily dodges out of the way. But it’s the quick and sharp counter attack Lambert snaps back with that gets her. He knocks his own sparring sword against the outside of her thigh.

Jaskier can hear her cursing underneath her breath from here. She gathers herself before running, roaring, towards Lambert with her sword above her head ready to pummel.

Yennefer snorts. “She’s spent too much time with Geralt,” she says airily.

“Like you’re a saint,” Jaskier replies. Ciri’s magic might be tempered, but her temper sure isn’t. A little cub with teeth and claws already. He isn’t surprised. She managed to get her way to Geralt after her home and family and life crumpled around her. She has a fight in her that is a force to be reckoned with; magic aside.

Yennefer chuckles. He doesn’t _hate_ her. Not really. Catty comments and disagreements about anything and everything; but he finds himself able to let his shoulders drop. And for all that he annoys her with ceaseless playing of his lute or crowing lyrics throughout the keep, Yennefer’s smile doesn’t fade away when he glances over at her.

“I’m not _that_ fond of you, bard,” Yennefer mulls. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

He forgets that the sorceress can see into his mind.

He hums. “I wouldn’t think so. You once held my cock hostage and held a knife to my throat. I think that your feelings about me were evident,” Jaskier says steadily. And, yeah, he supposes that he should let that one go. It’s been years. But he needs both of those things to get through life, and Yennefer of Vengerberg didn’t have any sort of problem in threatening to take both of them away.

A barking laugh echoes through the arena. Jaskier glowers over at Lambert standing by the sidelines of the arena, still sporting a broad grin at the picture he must be imagining. “Shut the fuck up,” Jaskier growls at the red-haired Witcher, his frown only deepening when Lambert folds over in a laugh, almost dropping his sword to the ground.

Yennefer tilts her head, remembering. “Ah, the djinn, yes.” _Yes, **that**. _“Funny business.”

He can attest that it wasn’t funny at all, but his attention is grabbed by a grunt of pain. He looks over just in time to see Eskel drop down on to his knee, Ciri’s blade perched against his knee. Eskel nods at her. “Very good,” he says, clambering back up. He’s ready to go again within seconds.

Geralt steps out into the yard, arms folded over his chest as he watches the arena with a keen eye. His gaze eventually wanders over to the forge, to Jaskier and Yennefer.

Jaskier offers him a small smile.

“You’re both adorable,” Yennefer stands, gathering the lapels of her coat to stave off the chill. A small smile curls her lips. When she walks away, her step is light and barely disturbs the ground. She brushes past Geralt, turning over her shoulder to send Jaskier a wide smile when she’s far enough away from the Witcher.

Odd woman.

* * *

It’s early. He doesn’t know how early it is exactly, but even before he can crack his eyes open, he can sense that bleary morning light is already struggling to stretch into the room through the crack in the curtains. He draws in a long, deep breath. Geralt’s room still smells like them. The heavy scent of sex coats the roof of his mouth, almost suffocating.

He wakes slowly; wading towards consciousness to the dying crackle of embers in the hearth nearby and the rustle of bedsheets. There’s a warm, heavy body lying half-on top of him, claiming his right side hostage. The more he trudges into waking, the more aware he is. And he finally notices the skimming of fingertips along the small of his back.

He’s lying on his front, his face turned to the other side of the room and half-smushed into his pillow. Geralt has him prone, pinned down with his body. Though, he thinks dreamily, he couldn’t make himself move if he tried. Most of his words are lost to his pillow as he slurs them. “What’re you doin’?”

Geralt’s hand slips underneath the sheets, warm and familiar, travelling over Jaskier’s skin. It passes the arch of his hip and sinks further down, his fingers skimming down towards his cock. Jaskier buries a small sigh into his pillow. This is his favourite way to wake up; already entangled in the Witcher from the previous night, still deliciously sore and numbed. And with a promise of doing it all again.

Geralt pins his right side, letting his hand wander where it likes while one of his feet brush Jaskier’s calf. The Witcher might have hated people touching him, but gods alive when Jaskier got his hands on him that first night in that inn, it awoke something. He hasn’t stopped touching Jaskier. Anything from brief brushes of fingers along his own when they walk beside each other, to slow and languid love-making at night where there isn’t a stretch of skin that isn’t touching.

Soon, lips brush against his bare shoulder. Kisses trail over every patch of skin that Geralt can find, slowly peppering their way towards Jaskier’s neck. He’ll be lost then. Geralt knows where to kiss and touch him to get the right sort of sounds and reactions.

Just as the Witcher’s fingers wrap around his cock, he scrapes his teeth along the tendon of Jaskier’s neck.

“Oh, you bastard,” Jaskier groans, tilting his head up to let Geralt do whatever he likes. Because he can. He can do _whatever he likes_. Just as long as something gets done.

The Witcher chuckles. “Is that any way to speak to the man currently jerking you off?”

The grip around him is loose, and even if he were to thrust into it, it’s not going to get him anywhere. And Geralt knows that. “Is that what you’re doing?” Jaskier musters the energy to pick his head up off of the pillow. “I thought you were just being a terrible tease.”

The hand around him tightens. Geralt catches a bead of precum in his palm and lets it slick his way. It isn’t as wet as he’d like it to be, but the firm, dry brush up and down his cock is enough to get his breath thinning. “That will be my next ballad,” Jaskier mumbles, letting himself back on to his pillow and his eyes slip close, lounging in the feeling. “ _The Terrible Tease_. The whole world will know what a horrid man you are.”

Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s shoulder. He likes this Geralt. He likes Geralt in general. He’d venture as far as saying that he loves him. He’s loved him for quite a while, actually. But morning-Geralt is his favourite Geralt. He’s soft and pliable, and giddy. A Geralt that Jaskier imagines not many people have had the pleasure of seeing – and he savours that.

While Geralt knows how to touch and kiss him, Jaskier knows the same for the Witcher. Even pinned, he manages to lift his hips, just catching Geralt’s already hard cock on the cleft of his ass. A rumble shakes through the Witcher’s chest. “Better get on with it, darling,” Jaskier says, pillowing his arms underneath his head. “You’ll be whisked away soon enough.”

Training with Ciri. Consulting with Vesemir and Yennefer about what to do once winter has ended. Meeting Eskel and Lambert for routine patrols around the keep’s trails and finish up with re-mortaring the walls.

Vesemir lets his pups have the first week of their stay for free; to rest and sleep and eat as much as they need to in order to gain back the energy and muscle mass lost during the past three seasons. But the keep is theirs now, and theirs to manage and protect.

Within seconds, Geralt is over Jaskier completely, setting an arm into the pillows beside the bard’s head. He reaches over the short distance to the bedside table, fishing out their vial of oil and coating his fingers. Jaskier rolls his hips back as best as he can, but he’s moulded to the mattress now. _Not the worst way to go_ , he thinks languidly.

He buries a sigh into the pillow just as Geralt reaches down beneath the sheets and lets one finger slip into him. He’s still loose and wet from last night; a pent-up Witcher who knows how to wring as much pleasure out of him as possible. It could have very well lasted all night. A thrum of soreness crawls up the small of his back. “Darling,” Jaskier lifts his hips.

A second finger slips in beside the first and Geralt stretches him, slowly luring noises out of the centre of Jaskier’s chest and setting his blood on fire. Even now, methodical yet languid, Geralt can bring out the most in him. He’s never been able to feel emotions in halves – a great thing when paired with a Witcher who struggled to feel anything at all. But now, his Witcher has love cracking through and bursting out of his chest.

“You’re still wet,” Geralt rumbles against the shell of his ear. Jaskier’s skin pimples in gooseflesh. The fingers delve in and out of him, slowly reminding his body that Geralt isn’t done with him _at all_. Something wicked worms out of Geralt’s chest. “I should keep you here like this, just for me to use.”

“Only for you,” Jaskier breathes, pillowing his head on his arms. He focuses on the wall, following the mortal lines cragged through the bricks. He’s already having to draw in deep, steady breaths, staving off release. The fact that his body has managed to find another one after everything Geralt did to him not a few hours before is just mind-boggling.

A third finger joins, and the soreness from last night reignites. Jaskier buries a groan into his forearm, rocking his hips back against Geralt’s hand. “Please, darling,” he whines, “that’s enough, get in me, please.”

Geralt’s fingers are replaced by his cock within seconds. When he breaches the bard, a long languid moan slips out of both of them. Geralt sets his forehead against Jaskier’s back, looking down to where his cock slides into the bard’s ass. “So good for me, little lark,” he breathes, catching Jaskier’s hips in firm hands. “Lift your hips, lark, _yes,_ good. Let me in.”

There isn’t a place inside Jaskier where the other man isn’t touching. The head of his cock nudges against his prostate even with every quiver of his hips while Geralt tries to get used to the feeling of being back inside the bard. Jaskier’s breath catches when Geralt shuffles, bracing himself over Jaskier. “Good, lark,” Geralt mumbles, lifting his head to set his lips against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. Each breath puffs over the side of his face, and when Geralt talks when they’re like this, it can be _filthy_. “You’re still so tight around me, hmm? But hot and wet, just like a cunt.”

Jaskier groans. “ _Geralt_ ,” his words slur. He catches any sort of fabric he can find – the covers of the pillows or the bedsheets themselves – and lets his knuckles turn white. He pushes back against every thrust, moaning at the sound of their skin slapping. His cock rubs against the sheet below him, just enough stimulation to keep him interested but nowhere near enough to help release come sooner. Geralt will keep him like this, teetering on the edge, for as long as he wants.

Geralt hangs his head, watching Jaskier’s ass. He palms one globe with his hand, pushing it slightly to watch his cock drive into the bard with every thrust steadily turning firmer. “Can already feel you getting tighter, Jask,” he breathes, his voice holding something akin to an awe to it.

Jaskier buries his face into the pillows, letting his hips move and his insides clench.

A tight groan slips out of Geralt. It’s just that for a while; half-attempts at Jaskier’s name and grunts and groans, thrusting away into the plaint warm body beneath him, only to stop and shuffle and change angle. And it’s all too much. Jaskier’s breath hitches. He turns his head to the side, fucked-out noises slipping out between his lips. “Fuck me,” he whines, tightening his hold on the sheets, “you’re so big. I can feel you everywhere— _ah_.”

Geralt growls. “Spread your legs.”

The new angle gets him even deeper, and Jaskier can just about feel him up by his throat. His back bows and he goes as limp as he’s able to, just letting the Witcher fuck him however he likes. Some part of him wants to stay here forever. Fuck the outside world. Anything beyond the forests of Kaer Morhen can _fuck off_. Nilfgaard. The other kingdoms. Density. The whole lot of it. They can take a long run off of a short cliff. If he could stay here for the rest of his days – numerous, because of the elven blood tinting his veins – in Geralt’s bed, sheltered away from the storms, and then he could die a happy man.

Geralt lets out a tight noise. Within seconds, Jaskier is hauled up and back against Geralt’s chest, his head lolling back on to the Witcher’s shoulder. “Talk to me,” Geralt grunts, catching Jaskier’s hips again and snapping thrusts into them.

He’s close. Both of them are. But Jaskier reaches back and palms at Geralt’s ass, not helping the thrusting at all but just holding. “Come in me, fill me up, _please_ ,” he breathes. His other hand wanders to his cock, red and ruddy and leaking. When he wraps his fingers around himself, a groan wrangles out of his throat. He’s close, so fucking close, and if he’s going over the edge this time then he’s taking Geralt with him. “I want to be full of you. I want to feel you inside of me even when we’re done – I’ll walk downstairs to breakfast with you leaking out of me.”

Words slip away from Geralt. All that’s left are noises, feral ones that have him focused on getting them both over the edge. Jaskier lets out a breathless moan, tightening himself around Geralt. “Will they be able to smell it? Your cum in me, leaking out of me? I’ll be sitting among your brothers and they’ll know what we were doing.”

They already know. Even if Geralt’s general scent wasn’t completely taking over his own, even a blind man could have made out the marks Geralt likes to leave on Jaskier’s neck – _just_ beyond the reach of any collared shirts or doublets, because he’s a dickhead who delights in Jaskier’s mortification when faced with Geralt’s family eyeing him. 

But Geralt’s groan is tight and almost mixed with a whine. His eyes slip shut, his brows knitted together. Jaskier’s hand quickens on his cock. “Fuck it out of me, darling,” he breathes, frowning in concentration. The coil in his core is tightening. He’s close, and almost there, and just a bit more—

Just as he comes, something punching a tight, breathless groan out of him, Geralt’s hips still flushed against his and the Witcher bows over him. An arm across his chest stops them from falling over, Geralt bracing a hand into the bedding and gripping tightly.

Warmth spreads through Jaskier. He cants his hips back. Geralt might have stamina, but he’s prone to oversensitivity. A whine slips out of his throat. Jaskier lifts his dry hand up, cradling the side of Geralt’s face. “Shh, darling, you were so good for me,” he whispers, awe-struck and in worship. He sets his forehead to Geralt’s temple, letting their noses brush and their lips hover near each other. His release coats his other hand. Geralt’s nostrils flare.

“Good boy,” Jaskier breathes, leaning forward to catch Geralt in a long languid kiss. Their lips are numbed and full, and the kiss is nothing more than a catch of lips, but it’s more than enough.

* * *

For all the depravity he might whisper to Geralt in their bed, lulling the words against his ear and delighting in how much they can affect him, Jaskier does have a stretch of modesty. He bathes, cleaning himself of their night and morning, before stepping out for breakfast. The wolves have already gathered, Ciri sitting by them, shovelling bacon, eggs, and toast into their mouths. Vesemir is at the head of the table, watching his pups with some sort of depression at how like animals they act around the table. Eskel and Lambert quite literally grapple for the last two sausages.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him as soon as Jaskier sits down, trying his best to hide a wince. When he catches her eye, a lithe laugh slips out of her. “Have a good night, bard?” she asks airily, filing her plate with more roasted tomatoes and butter and herb mushrooms.

Jaskier fights the colour threatening to warm his face. “I did, actually. Thank you for asking, witch.”

It’s enough to earn him a fork through the thigh. But Yennefer laughs and slides back into a conversation with Vesemir about something or other about magic. He tries not to look at any of Geralt’s family. They know. Of course they know. And he can feel how a comment is lingering on the tip of Lambert’s tongue. But Ciri is present – that, and Jaskier can only guess that Eskel has already kicked him under the table to _shut it_.

Geralt wanders down later, humming a soft _thank you_ when Jaskier slides him a plate he kept back for him – because Lambert and Eskel are vultures and will eat Geralt’s food if it’s left alone. Just as he settles down into his seat, Geralt leans over and presses a light kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. Heat blooms through his skin and twists his stomach.

Someone groans. Jaskier looks over to the other side of the table. “Some of us are trying to eat,” Lambert says, a small lilt to his voice that promptly disappears when Eskel slaps the back of his head.

Vesemir’s heavy, tired sigh at the ensuing grappling match between his youngest sons rings out through the hall. 

* * *

Yennefer finds him later on in the day. It’s not that he goes out of his way to avoid the sorceress. She has her business and Jaskier has his, and they never overlap at all. He actually forgets that she’s even here. But as he settles into his usual armchair in front of the hearth, halfway through reading a riveting retelling of some Aedirn myths and legends, his ears twitch at the tell-tale clicks of Yennefer’s boots.

“Bard,” she greets, letting the door to the hall shut behind her. “I haven’t seen you since breakfast.”

Jaskier looks up from his book, arching an eyebrow. “Were you looking for me?”

“Oh no, wondering where you go when you’re not at meals.”

Jaskier holds up the book in his hands. “Reading, or composing my new collection of ballads.” It’s been a quiet day. He’s spent most of it helping Vesemir with dinner and then being shooed out because Vesemir has secret recipes that he doesn’t want blathered all over the Continent by an infamously big-mouthed bard.

The main hall has been redone into some sort of living space. Mismatched armchairs and couches are all gathered in front of the large, ornately carved hearth. Jaskier has a blanket draped over him, staving off the worst of the chill. Yennefer is bundled in a shawl, black and lined with fur.

In her hand, she holds the neck of a bottle of wine; something that’s deep red and smells faintly of Toussaint, even though she hasn’t even uncorked it.

The goblets are from the kitchen, but the wine must be Yennefer’s. The Witchers have their own brew of alcohol – something Jaskier explicitly isn’t allowed to even smell, let alone taste, according to Geralt. It could put him in a coma. And honestly, he’s down to just try a drop of it to see; and that is why Geralt never has any White Gull with him _ever_. But Yennefer likes nice and expensive things, and nothing is nicer or more expensive than a crate of Toussaint summer wine.

It might not put him in a coma, but it will loosen his tongue if he has enough.

Jaskier eyes the sorceress. “We don’t drink together,” he says slowly, evaluating the situation, “why are you brining me wine? Do you want us to drink together?”

Yennefer chuckles. “Bard, honestly, you have to stop being so suspicious of me.”

“I’ll stop being suspicious of you when you stop being suspicious.”

Yennefer pours them ample goblets. And by all the gods, it smells divine. Toussaint wine is a rarity, even for the northern-most nobles who have to splash out major gold to get a small crate. Jaskier wouldn’t even dream of trying to buy a bottle out of their coin; knowing that Geralt would probably throw him into the nearest ditch or river if he found out.

The sorceress gestures to the goblet closest to Jaskier. “Drink, if you want, I’m not going to force you,” she says, taking her own goblet and relaxing back into her armchair. “I thought we might have a chat, bard. If that’s okay with you?”

“A chat?”

“About Geralt.”

_This is how I die then, is it? Well, I’ve gotten farther than I thought—_

“What’s he like with you?” she muses quietly, swirling the wine and scenting it. “In bed?”

Jaskier just about manages to keep a hold of his book, and not let it topple to the ground in shock. “Why are you asking that?”

“Research.” Her voice is clipped, as it would be if she _actually_ in her laboratories examining and making potions. But this is something else. Her smile is wicked, even though it only lifts a corner of her rouged lips. “I’m wondering if there are any changes.”

 _Now that he’s with you_. The last part goes unsaid.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. _Is she—oh, gods above, she is. Why is she staring at me? You witch, are you reading my thoughts?_ —

“I can hardly read them if you’re always blasting them around like a battle-horn, bard,” Yennefer says, toeing off her heeled shoes and bring her legs up and underneath her on the armchair. The hearth crackles and spits, but the warmth from it melts right into Jaskier’s bones. Harsh storms may whip and hiss at the walls outside, with the rain threatening to freeze over if it gets any colder, but with a large, ever-lit hearth in the main hall, it helps move the winter along. The hot springs help, their steam crawling up through the keep and warming most of the upper rooms.

Yennefer takes a measured sip of wine, letting it mull around her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Hmm,” she looks for the bottle, examining the worn label. She’s pointedly being quiet. Letting the quiet settle between them; something that needs to be filled with something. And he could not rise to her and talk about the weather, just as a guttural wind howls outside and lashes the windows with a hail of rain.

But he’s slowly been letting his hackles down around Yenn, and _yeah_ , she wants to ask him these weird questions, but...

“If I’m going to tell you of my sexual exploits,” his gaze drops to the table and the bottles and tankards gathered on it, “we’re going to need more wine than this.”

Yennefer’s grin turns wicked. “Done.”

* * *

Geralt’s nose wrinkles as he steps into the main hall. Something that Jaskier has always found incredibly endearing. “Geralt!” he waves the Witcher over. Wine crawls through his veins in the place of blood. “My love! I was wondering where you’ve been!”

The Witcher cocks his head, but a loose smile curls along his lip. He strolls over, scenting the air. Just beyond the two bodies sprawled into the armchairs, he spots three bottles of Toussaint wine and half-empty goblets. He arches an eyebrow. “Having fun?”

When he stands by Jaskier’s chair, he lets his hand brush the bard’s shoulder. One of those light touches that his body compels him to do, with his mind only trailing after.

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs happily, catching Geralt’s fingers and kissing them.

Yennefer watches, but keeps the lip of her goblet close to her mouth. Geralt’s eyes meet her. There’s something behind the purple hue – mischief, knowing that she’s been stoking some sort of fire. And he’s never known the two of them to get along; especially drink and be merry together. “What have you two been talking about?”

“You,” Jaskier sighs, keeping Geralt’s fingers pushed against his cheek.

At that, Geralt blinks. “Should I be worried?”

“No, no, no,” his words start to fade. He can only down so much Toussaint wine before sleep starts curling a finger at him.

He’s warm and content and _very drunk_. He should head to bed. But the thought of climbing all of those stairs sours his tongue.

So logically, instead, he holds out his arms.

Geralt’s brow only arches higher. “Seriously?”

“I’m _drunk_ , Geralt!” Jaskier waves his arms. “You wouldn’t want me tripping, would you? I’d trip and fall on the steps and crack my head, and I’d be dead! Oh, that rhymes actually. You don’t happen to have my notebook on you, do you?”

Jaskier’s babbling continues even when Geralt hoists him over his shoulder. His stream of words doesn’t even falter, though he has just started to ponder what meter the new song would lull in. _To bed_ , Geralt thinks firmly, carrying the bard as far away from Yennefer and her devil-wine as possible.

Yennefer hides her smile into the bowl of her goblet. “Goodnight bard.”

Jaskier blearily waves his hand. “Goodnight sorceress!” he crows, even as Geralt turns them out into the corridor.

* * *

“Have you ever given thought to being the one to fuck him?”

Jaskier’s breakfast catches and lodges in his throat. They’re alone, _thank every fucking god he can think of_. He coughs and splutters and just about manages to dislodge it and set his cutlery down before turning, wide-eyed, to the sorceress.

Yennefer sits sideways in her chair, facing him, with an elbow resting on the table. She tilts her head in that pondering way that she does, her eyes scrutinising his on where what he’s going to say is a lie or not.

 _She’s fucking serious_.

“Wh-What?”

Yennefer shrugs a shoulder in such a casual way, he’s wondering if he heard her right. But apparently he fucking did because— “He likes it.”

“He li— _what_?” He’s not going to sit here and say that he doesn’t know that Geralt has slept with other men before him. Geralt’s been alive for a while now. And he doesn’t particularly care about who is in his bed, just that they’re willing and—

Yennefer holds his eyes.

“Why would—Why do you know he likes it? Has he mentioned it before?”

Her head cocks, her smile only growing.

What’s she—

Oh.

_Oh._

Yennefer sits back, utterly delighted with herself.

“You,” he gapes, looking to the door to the dining hall as if the Witcher would be standing there, but just to make sure he isn’t because Jaskier has just made his peace with the fact his lover’s ex got him drunk and they talked about his dick for _too many hours_.

Yennefer reaches out, hooking a finger underneath Jaskier’s chin and shutting his mouth. “Give it some thought, bard,” she says airily, before standing up and leaving with a flourish of her dress.

As the clicking of her heeled boots fades into echoes, Jaskier sits there, frozen, breakfast long forgotten about.

What the fuck was that?

* * *

“Did you ask Jaskier about fucking me?”

Yennefer glances up from her vials. Newly brewed potions sit in small, cast-iron cauldrons dotted around the worktable. Vesemir kindly allowed her to use any herbs she needed from his garden towards the top of the keep. Yennefer watches him for a moment. He doesn’t look angry, which is always good. Just...perplexed.

“I did,” she replies after a moment, turning back to bottling and labelling her potions.

There’s a long pause. “Why?”

“You weren’t going to,” she says, not bothering to look up from her equipment. “I just told him to think about it.”

“Well, he’s thinking about it,” Geralt replies, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s done four laps of the whole keep muttering to himself.”

A laugh huffs out of the sorceress. She ties a label around the neck of one thin vial – a potent poison in case of emergencies. Always good to have one around. Geralt seems keen to the let the silence stretch out, though. Lids clink on to their vials and papers ruffle as she makes new labels, all the while a small fire burns boiling the next batch.

Geralt grunts. “Stop meddling,” he says, turning on his heel and marching out of the laboratory.

He doesn’t see the small smile ghosting the sorceress’ lips.

* * *

“So,” Jaskier drawls, fidgeting with the sheets a few nights later. “...Would you...?”

“Hmm?”

“Gods alive,” Jaskier sighs, burying his face into the sheets and gathering himself. Why is this so difficult? It’s sex. He likes sex. Geralt likes sex. They both like sex with each other. Neither of them are blushing maidens.

Geralt keeps his attention on his swords, perched at the foot of their bed running a whetstone over both of them. It’s a relaxation thing, Jaskier discovered moons ago. It could very well be one of the few moments Geralt could compose himself, when he wasn’t spending his mornings with Jaskier, of course.

But the bard bites the inside of his cheek. _Just ask him. Yennefer has already mentioned it to him. Just ask—_

“Would you be interested in me fucking you?”

The low whine of a whetstone against steel abruptly stops. The silence it leaves behind is deafening. The crackle of the lit hearth snaps and hisses while Jaskier’s heart hammers in his chest, ready to break out of its cage and flop on to the bed.

“Is this because of Yenn?”

“We...I mean, you know what we talked about,” he stammers. “It’s odd, you know. Having your ex and your current lover in the same place. And when wine is involved, whew. But um, I guess, if you were up for it, for me...yeah, for me fucking you then, I, gods alive, I’d be fine with that. More than fine, actually. All for it.”

_Shut up, Jaskier._

“But you don’t have to, I like how we are now. It’s good. More than good actually. It’s great. Splendid. Do people call sex splendid? Gods, I sound so old. But um, yeah, Yenn and I talked. And drank. You knew that already. Thank you for carrying me, by the way. I didn’t thank you before but thanks.”

Geralt glances over his shoulder, regarding him with that stupid immovable expression and cool golden eyes.

With the absence of words coming out of the Witcher on any other day, Jaskier has gained a talent of being able to read his face and body. He’s gotten pretty damn good at it, if he says so himself. But Geralt’s face is cool. Observing. Watching.

Jaskier’s throat bobs. “It’s silly,” he laughs lightly. “You know what, um, it’s fine. It was a silly conversation with an ex of yours. A friend, I guess. We’re friends now, I think. Yennefer is nice. A calculating, conniving sort, but nice.”

_I’ll just jump from the highest battlement now; and knowing my luck, the gods will have me somehow survive it just to be spiteful fuckers—_

There’s a clatter of metal and the bed shuffles underneath him and familiar, soft lips catch his—

Jaskier hums into the kiss, reaching out instinctively for Geralt’s jaw to hold and guide. It’s a deep kiss, with his toes curling and his breath stolen.

Then there are hands. Geralt’s hands go for the hems of Jaskier’s shirt and pants, intent on ripping them off if they don’t come quickly and quietly. A sound slips out of Jaskier’s throat. “Are you sure?” his mumbles against the Witcher’s lips. His fingers fumble with the ties of Geralt’s shirt. He’s never been as desperate to get every stitch of clothing off of the man before; but his heart quickens at the thought of what Geralt is letting him do. Then again—

“We can stop if you want. I don’t want to seem like you’re pressured to—”

“ _Jaskier_ —”

“Right, right, okay.” As soon as enough ties have loosened on Geralt’s shirt, he grabs the hem and wrangles it off of the Witcher. A sleeping shirt and soft, worn breeches end up far from the bed. Which corner they find themselves in, Jaskier couldn’t care less. He just needs the Witcher’s skin on his. He’s too hot and everything is churning and scalding. His own shirt joins them quick enough, but his hands start to fumble.

Geralt kisses him and it’s a struggle to pull away, even just to breathe. The Witcher leans forward, urging Jaskier on to his back. Jaskier’s hands are caught midair, unsure of where to go. Any breath caught in his chest rushes out at Geralt picking the laces of his breeches apart. “Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, caught between letting his head fall back and languish in the feeling, or else keeping his eyes firmly on the Witcher currently yanking his breeches down. Geralt tosses them off of the bed completely, almost hitting the nearby wall, and sets his mouth on the arch of Jaskier’s hip.

His cock twitches. If he’s being completely honest with himself, it wouldn’t take much to get him hard and leaking. The thought of Geralt being fucked by _anyone_ had his core twisting and his blood warmed. The fact that he gets to do it now – that it will be just _him_ doing it from now on – he has to clench his fist and bite it as Geralt peppers kisses and licks down the length of his cock.

He’s close already. And he’s been put through the gauntlet of Geralt’s stamina in bed before. But he’s too tightly worn for this—

His free hand goes to Geralt’s head, fingers curling into his hair and tugging. Geralt moans, and it rumbles through his cock. “ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier groans around his bared teeth. Geralt is a wicked thing, hollowing his cheeks and sucking with every travel up the length of Jaskier’s cock. His hands wander, slipping around the bard’s hips and cupping his ass.

Geralt pulls off of him with a pop. “Fuck my mouth, lark,” Geralt rasps, setting back to work. 

_Gods alive, he’s going to die. This is it. And what a way to go._

Jaskier’s hips lift of their own accord. He doesn’t have much of a say in the matter. The hold he has on Geralt’s hair tightens and his teeth almost break skin on his fist as he fucks up into the warm, wet heat of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt guides him as best as he can, guiding deep thrusts into his mouth, just letting his lips settle at the base of Jaskier’s cock. And Jaskier will just about die if he watches any more. He groans, falling back against the pillows and staring up at the ceiling. Pleasure washes over him like ocean waves, and he revels in it. His hips lift and fucks up into the tight heat around him.

And then it’s gone.

Jaskier’s head snaps up, a threat perched on the tip of his tongue.

“Are you close?”

What kind of fucking question is that? Geralt knows damn well how close he is.

“Come now, lark. It’ll take the edge off.”

His Witcher is a sadist. Jaskier’s breath quickens as he reaches down and covers Geralt’s hand with his own, tightening the hold on him how he likes. A thrum of pleasure worms up through his core, digging down deep and tightening until it snaps.

He arches off of the bed when he comes, emptying himself into Geralt’s mouth. His groans reach for the rafters overhead. Geralt hums around him, dipping his mouth down again to gather everything before pulling off and it’s too much—

When Geralt pulls off of him and moves away, Jaskier just about manages to swallow the whine crawling up his throat. He waves his hand blearily. “I’ll be with you in a sec, just,” he draws in a steady breath. It catches in his throat when Geralt reaches to their bedside cabinet, fishing out a vial of oil. Jaskier watches slack-jawed as Geralt pours an ample amount of it on to his palm, slickening his fingers, and reaches behind himself. His cock makes a haphazard attempt to fill again, twitching and leaking and _gods_ —

“Geralt, _darling_ ,” Jaskier breathes, reaching out to ghost his fingertips along Geralt’s thigh. It quivers and shudders underneath his touch. It’s only a finger, Jaskier can only presume, but it has Geralt’s breath thinning into light grunts and moans. He imagines how long it’s been since someone has done this for him. And something tightens in his chest. He didn’t even consider the fact that Geralt would have wanted to switch; he seemed perfectly capable and content to make love to Jaskier, or to fuck him through the nearest flat surface he could find.

And now—

“Talk to me, my love,” Jaskier coos; because if Geralt can pry him apart with words and touches, Jaskier comes armed with his words. “Are you tight? Will I be able to fit inside of you?”

A rumbling, trembling groan shakes out of Geralt. He leans forward, setting a hand on the mattress while he slips another finger into himself. Jaskier watches with rapt attention, watching a hand and its fingers disappear. Jaskier reaches out, curling his fingers around Geralt’s cock. It’s hard and heavy in his hand, and a few pumps of his wrist have drops of cum already beading.

“Add another finger when you’re ready, darling,” Jaskier lulls, mustering the energy to roll on to his side and dust his lips over Geralt’s cock. His tongue slips out, running just below Geralt’s tip. A shudder shakes through Geralt. Just out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier delights in the sight of the Witcher’s knuckles whitening against the bedclothes.

Geralt groans as he slips another finger in, his brows knitting together as a sharp sting shoots up his spine. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Slowly, slowly,” he mumbles, “take your time. Don’t rush.”

A whine slips out of Geralt’s throat and, Jaskier pauses and looks up, he’s never heard that noise before. Even when Geralt mounts him, chasing down his own release when Jaskier is tight and wet around him, _that_ sound has never slipped out.

“Come here,” Jaskier holds out a hand, guiding Geralt to lie back on the bed. The bard swallows the lump trying to lodge in his throat. “Let me see you, darling. Spread your legs.”

And any word in any language leaves him at the sight of Geralt pumping his fingers in and out of his hole, stretching himself out for Jaskier. The bard reaches down, catching the base of his cock in a tight hold. He’ll come if he pushes them too far. But, by all of the gods, he can’t take his eyes off of the Witcher.

Geralt’s legs spread as far as they can go. Jaskier settles a hand on the inside of his thigh, keeping it where it is, while he watches, enraptured. Geralt is methodical in how he stretches himself, delving deep to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot inside of him that has his breath hitching and his leg trembling. Jaskier soothes him. “You’re doing so well, my darling,” he rasps. “You should see yourself, spread out and open all for me.”

Geralt’s head rolls to the side. Bleary, half-focused golden eyes search out for his.

Jaskier reaches up, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “I think that should be enough, hmm?” he soothes, letting his fingers trail down the side of Geralt’s face and brush against the light stubble around his cheeks. When then catches Geralt’s chin in between two fingers. “What do you think, my love? Do you think you can take me now? Be honest, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Geralt loosens a moan. “I’m ready,” he rumbles, and if that doesn’t coil Jaskier’s core even further. He isn’t even in the Witcher and his voice is already a ruined rasp.

Jaskier smoothes the backs of his fingers against Geralt’s cheek. “Good boy,” he says, “always so good for me.” He can’t wait for it. The race to get between Geralt’s legs and slick up his cock is nothing but shuffling and fumbling. Geralt’ hand falls away from himself, going to his cock to curl around it and tug it back to hard. Jaskier flattens a hand on his abdomen, feeling how he quivers and trembles. He sets the head of his cock against Geralt’s hole, already catching his breath at how warm and tight and wet he imagines it’s going to be.

 _Fucking pull yourself together, Pankratz_.

But how can he with Geralt looking up at him like he is? White hair fans out around him like a halo, his skin already dappled in sweat and his breath thinning. “You tell me if anything hurts, okay?” Jaskier says firmly. Because he doesn’t know when the last time Geralt did something like this.

He’s lost on what to expect. A grunted _get on with it_ , or just a nod. But Geralt whines and tilts his head back, desperate. “Okay,” he breathes, letting his legs splay out and he practically melts into the bed.

And the sight laid out in front of him steals what’s left of his breath.

When Jaskier starts to push in, he watches what he can see of Geralt’s face. His throat bobs and his jaw tightens, and the tip of an _are you okay_ sits on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue.

Geralt hooks an ankle on to the small of the bard’s back, urging him forward.

It’s hot and wet with oil and tighter than anything he’s ever experienced—

Jaskier groans when he bottoms out, leaning down to press his chest flush against Geralt’s. “Look at me, my love,” he scrambles to frame Geralt’s face and cherish him there and then. Geralt goes willingly; all bleary, half-focused eyes threatening to roll back, a slackened mouth. He tightens around Jaskier, clamping down on him. And a whine slips out of Jaskier’s chest. “Good boy, Geralt. That’s it.”

Jaskier’s thumbs caress the arches of Geralt’s cheekbones. Their lips hover, a shared breath filled with moans between them. He can’t guarantee either of them will last long. His hips quiver, trying to thrust forward, but there’s nowhere for him to go. Geralt is moulded around him, and the head of his cock is pressed flush against Geralt’s prostate – if the trembling breaths are anything to go by.

Geralt catches his wrists, tightening his hold into something firm and present. “I love you,” he breathes, leaning forward to set their foreheads together. Jaskier’s throat bobs. “I love you so much, my little lark.”

The leg he has around the bard tightens. A silent request to move.

It takes him a moment to recover from the flood of raw emotion that washed over him and left him near-drowning. Jaskier pushes their foreheads together. _I love you too_. He pushes the thought through their skin and into his Witcher’s thick, stubborn skull.

But he lets himself bury his face into the hollow of Geralt’s neck, setting his lips against the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulder, as his hips draw back and snap forward.

The sound that is punched out of Geralt will embed into his memory for the rest of his life.

Jaskier thrusts again and again until a steady, deep rhythm is caught. Geralt shudders around him, his insides quivering and squeezing around Jaskier any time he moves. He’s aware of Geralt’s cock between them, hard and leaking over the Witcher’s abdomen. He wants to sit back and watch, to grab Geralt’s hips and snap into them like he does with him. But he kisses every stretch of skin he can find, letting his lips linger over Geralt’s pulse point.

One of Geralt’s arms coils around his shoulders, while the other wanders, travelling down to the small of his back to join his heel. He’s bent underneath Jaskier, tightening himself around the bard and shuddering with every wave of pleasure it brings.

“Lift your hips, darling,” Jaskier breathes against his neck, “let me feel how desperate you are for it.”

Geralt moans something broken, but follows the order. Two arms coil around Jaskier’s shoulders, hanging on, as Geralt lets his hips lift. They meet for every thrust. And it’s too much. The sounds echoing through the room are depraved and everything that Jaskier could have hoped for.

“I want to hear how good it feels,” Jaskier nips Geralt’s neck. “It feels good, doesn’t it darling? Having me inside of you?”

Geralt moans. “ _Yes_. Please-Please Jask, you’re getting so deep.”

Jaskier hums, having enough wherewithal to continue his lulling words. “Your clenching so tight around me, darling, there’s nowhere else for me to go. You’re so tight and hot and wet. What did you say to me a few nights ago? You were going to fuck into my wet, hot cunt?”

Geralt’s breath hitches.

“Is that what you want from me, my darling boy? To do the same to you?” Because Jaskier has no qualms about that _at all_. And he’s starting to teeter now. Whether he’s talking to urge Geralt on or himself, he isn’t sure anymore. But with how tightly Geralt is gripping on to him and how much he’s spilling between them, he’s fairly sure he can get the Witcher over the edge first. His skin tastes like salt with every kiss the leaves against the man’s neck. “I’d keep you full, darling, now that I know what a whore you are.”

Geralt tilts his head back, a long, languid moan rolling out of him.

“Tell me,” Jaskier mumbles, because it might work, or it might earn him a punch in the face, but it’s worth trying, “did you spread your legs this easily for Yennefer?”

 _That_ does it.

Sounds that might have been words at one point slip out of Geralt as he paws at Jaskier’s back. The leg hooked around his hip tightens.

Jaskier goes in for the kill. “She told me how you liked it,” he rumbles against his neck. He only has faint, slurred memories of their conversation. A riveting one that he wishes he had more time for. “She told me how you liked to be fucked. Imagine that, hmm? And here you are, begging and moaning on my cock. What a good whore I have. I’d keep you in my bed if I could, darling. Open and wet and ready for me to use whenever I wished. Would you like that?”

Geralt comes. It’s something explosive, how he crumples in on himself only to stretch back against the bed. Jaskier looks down just in time to see cum splatter on to his abdomen, a few drops stretching towards his chest.

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He didn’t think that the Witcher could get any tighter. But here he is, languidly beneath him, blearily looking up. Geralt’s lips barely move as he bumbles out words. “Come in me, Jaskier,” he mumbles, letting his legs fall splayed to the side. He’s open and hot and every snap of Jaskier’s hips has him tumbling closer. “I need you, lark. I need it. Fill me up.”

Jaskier comes with a choked-off attempt at Geralt’s name. He floods the body underneath him, setting his hips flush against Geralt. He looks down at some of his cum starting to spill out already. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

Geralt stumbles an arm underneath himself and sit up slightly, looking down at where they’re still joined. A groan rumbles deep out of Geralt’s chest as he clenches around the bard.

“Have some mercy, you fucking sadist,” Jaskier groans, slipping out of Geralt. The stream of come that trickles out of Geralt is something else – but he bites the inside of his cheek when Geralt lays back down on the bed, letting a hand drift down and fingers delve back inside himself.

Geralt of Rivia will kill him. And he used to think that it was because of having annoyed him too much, so he probably would have earned that sword to the chest.

But this is just cruel.

Geralt hums, his fingers eventually slipping away. It doesn’t help Jaskier _at all_ that he brings them to his mouth as laps at them.

“Right,” Jaskier shakes his head, desperate to watch but also to keep himself together. He slips out of bed and pads over to a washbasin nearby. He drenches a cloth and brings it back over. He should probably be the one to clean Geralt, being the one to make the mess in the first place. And Geralt isn’t one to disagree when his eyelids flutter closed as Jaskier cleans him.

When everything is sorted and the worst of the tremors are going from Jaskier’s hands, he slips underneath the sheets and lets his Witcher cuddle him. Because this is familiar, having Geralt warm and pliant and a heavy, familiar arm coiling around his middle and huddling close.

But his mind is still a maelstrom.

“So did...” Jaskier ponders towards the ceiling, trying to find the right words. “You...and Yennefer?”

Geralt grunts. “Gods alive, Jaskier.”

“I’m just asking!” A broad smile curls along his lips as Geralt grabs one of their pillows and tries to smother himself. “Oh, _oh_. Whose idea was it? She wore a harness, I imagine. And where was this?—”

Geralt groans, turning on to his side, away from his bard, and tries to burrow underneath the sheets and possibly the cobbles underneath. Anywhere but here, where Jaskier’s half-giggling ramblings won’t follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He really needs to thank Yennefer of Vengerberg.
> 
> He’s been toying with the idea for a couple of days now. But how does one thank someone for this sort of gift? Does he even need to? It’s...peculiar, to say the least. But they’ve always been a bit peculiar and he can’t imagine this being the strangest thing either of them has ever done. Jaskier jogs quickly through any hint of an afterimage he can muster about past bedmates and...no, this definitely isn’t the strangest thing he’s ever done.
> 
> \-----
> 
> aka: the Chapter That No One Asked For, where Yennefer Joins In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, if you don't want to read this chapter, that's fine. Jaskier and Geralt have some Fun Times within the first half. but if you just want to leave the fic as a Part I and not acknowledge his chapter's existence, then that's fine (but know that this chapter took me a week to write and I'll be sad even though I literally just said it's fine). 
> 
> However, if anyone is like me, and screams Yennefer Pegging Rights at the top of their voice...

Sleep is rarely friendly to him. It prefers to stalk the shadows of his room and only let him slip so far underneath before a creaking floorboard or a distant voice has him waking. It’s been a while since he has had to clamber awake, his body sunken into the mattress below him and his bones waning at the thought of moving.

Jaskier is as dead to the world as always; his hair askew with limbs sprawled out in every direction; though he has the Witcher firmly under arrest if the arm and leg strewn over him is anything to go by.

Something has changed between them. Something has cracked open and allowed them to entangle, heart and soul. He’s loath to be more than an arm’s reach away from his lark, adeptly in tune with every breath he takes and every beat of his heart. It’s never been like this, caring for other people. People swan in and out of his life like changing seasonal winds. Those who linger for a while keep to the outskirts of his mind, never venturing too far inwards for fear of finding something monstrous. Or else Geralt has kept them out there, beyond a wall of mortar and brick. He doesn’t want anyone trekking too far into the shadows inside his own being.

But Jaskier—

Geralt wakes entangled in him. When the bard slips out of their bed, either to relieve himself or to bathe or to venture down to the kitchens and grab them breakfast, Geralt’s hold on him only grows. He can’t go. He can’t leave. He can’t be by himself. So he tightens his hold on Jaskier. And if the bard manages to slip away, something akin to a whine will slip out of Geralt’s throat, and he’ll paw aimlessly at the bed in search of his lark.

For the first few days, Jaskier had laughed. “Silly man,” he said, somehow managing to turn in Geralt’s arms and nuzzle his head underneath the Witcher’s chin. Sleep lapped over them again and by the time Geralt finally ventured outside, Vesemir had knocked on their door to order him down to the barracks because it was almost midday. Jaskier is only thankful that the elder Witcher has enough sense to not barge through doors. While the elder often gave his pups the first week of returning home to rest and gain their strength back, the whole season was not to be spent lounging around in bed.

The nights had been unbearably long. With shortened days that barely saw any sun because of the thick blanket of rain-heavy clouds that draped over the kingdoms, the nights had barely been chased away before they came stalking back. And they lingered. Geralt fell asleep to darkness and woke up to it again, even when hours had passed. Jaskier helps move the nights along. When they pad back to Geralt’s room, toeing off boots by the door and leaving cloaks and shirts and breeches behind on their trek to bed, the hours slip by as Jaskier wrings pleasure out of him. It’s easier, letting himself be lain down and having the bard dust him with kisses and plied with fingers. He’s worshipped. He’ll have to get used to that word, or the thought of it. He’s designed to work in shadow, keeping himself to the outskirts and out of view. And Jaskier will come along at night, and in the morning, and lay him out for his eyes only as he pours out everything he can give him.

Jaskier’s words are kind. They always have been. Full of worship and awe and tightening Geralt’s chest so much that he can’t even breathe. Jaskier dusts kisses along each scar he can find – and over the sun-turns of them travelling and sleeping together, he’s found and charted all of them.

Geralt’s breath shakes as Jaskier’s lips travel towards the arches of his hips. A lithe smirk tugs the corner of the bard’s lip. He knows what he can do to Geralt, armed only with lips and fingers and words. And he delights in it.

Their bellies are full and skin made warm and soft from a soak in the baths below the keep. Jaskier scents the familiar lotions and oils seeped into Geralt’s skin. “You smell like me,” he mumbles, the words barely bumbling out of his lips. He ventures lower, eyeing Geralt’s cock. It’s hard and red already, demanding his attention, but the bard moves past it. “You always smell like me. Do you think that the others have picked that up yet?”

A whine sticks in the back of Geralt’s throat. He wants the bard’s mouth. Well, he _has_ the bard’s mouth. He has it everywhere where he doesn’t want it—

Jaskier chuckles. “I see the way they look at you in the morning, when we come down for breakfast,” he lilts, ever the godsdamn siren Geralt knows him as.

Jaskier makes no secret in revelling in it. Geralt has had to clamp down on a snarl aimed at his preening bard when he joins the pack for breakfast. When he sits down and a thrum of pain runs up the small of his back and he has to swallow a wince. Whether or not his brothers have noticed, he doesn’t know. He never looks up to gauge their reaction, merely preferring to gather his plate of food and be out of the dining hall as quickly as he can. The muffled laughter from the bard beside him doesn’t help in the slightest. But his family do know what Jaskier means to him. No human would ever attempt to scale the mountain if they didn’t find themselves entangled heart and soul with a Witcher. That alone has the winter winds seem a bit less biting and harsh.

But the knowledge that the other Witchers scent him on Geralt, that they know what they are to each other and accept Jaskier into their pack, it has his heart skipping within his chest. 

Geralt’s head burrows back into the pillows at the first brush of Jaskier’s lips along the base of his cock. The bard’s mouth is a weapon. His lips have no right being as dangerous as they are, whether they’re lulling sweet words or luring kisses out of him that have him gasping. Jaskier hums, scenting Geralt’s skin for a moment, before he ventures lower. Kisses skirted along the length of Geralt’s cock, wet and laving tongue soon joining them. Geralt’s hands twitch. His fingers curl into the sheets below him. Jaskier didn’t tell him to keep them there, but he didn’t invite them to wander. He’s too far gone and his mind is a maelstrom and he just needs someone to tell him what to do—

Jaskier’s hand curls into one of his, slowly untangling his fingers from the sheets. He guides it, setting Geralt’s hand to the back of his head and humming when the Witcher’s fingers card through and curl into his hair. “Fuck my mouth, darling,” Jaskier lulls, setting his mouth on Geralt again.

With the warm, wet heat around him, Geralt moans. His hips stutter, thrusting up into Jaskier’s mouth. The bard hums. As much as Jaskier likes to lull and lure his Witcher, armed with the new information that Yennefer gifted him, he still likes to hand control back over to Geralt. It bounces between both of them, never quite settling on one of them for more than a few minutes. Geralt can gnaw on the bard’s neck and prying him apart with sure fingers, but a few lulling words from Jaskier’s lips have him quaking and doing just about anything he says.

One of Jaskier’s hands settle on Geralt’s abdomen, his fingers splayed out and feeling his muscle twitch and tense underneath him. His other hand stays dutifully on the outside of his hip, not quite guiding but not quite halting either. Jaskier lips move up and down, sucking when Geralt’s whole length is in his mouth and almost hits the back of his throat. The muscle underneath his hand quivers.

A small smirk tugs the stretched out corners of his lips. When he pulls off, Geralt just about manages to quell a whine. “Do you want to come like this, darling?” he purrs, keeping his lips dusting any stretch of skin he can reach; the base of Geralt’s cock, the man’s trembling abdomen.

Geralt grunts.

“That’s not an answer,” Jaskier lilts.

“ _Fuck_ , yes, yes please, Jaskier,” Geralt gasps, letting his head fall back on to the pillows. He’s torn, the poor thing, on whether to watch or not. Whether to let himself tumble over the edge and loosen the coil in him, or to keep going and draw it out more and more.

Jaskier hums, letting his fingers dig into the flesh of Geralt’s hip. He’d love to leave marks. He would give anything to see his own marks on the Witcher’s skin alongside the scars left by monster hunts. They’ll be gone as soon as they wake up. Geralt can litter Jaskier’s skin with bites and scratches and leave him marred for the following days, but any hope of leaving any sort of mark on Witcher has long since left. Though Jaskier is nothing but persistent. 

He sets his mouth back on to Geralt and lets the Witcher fuck up into him. The fingers curled into his hair tighten and hold on just as Geralt’s hips stutter, desperate to chase the wet, hot heat of Jaskier’s mouth. And Jaskier lets him. He revels in Geralt being able to lose himself. He’s measured and holds himself back out in the world. The Witcher’s shoulders tighten and tense as they walk the path from one town to another. But here, in a shared bed, it all slips away. And whether the Witcher sets his teeth to Jaskier’s neck as he ploughs into him, or lets Jaskier slowly unwind him with kisses and fingers, the bard languishes in the way Geralt unfurls underneath him.

He feels the Witcher reaching the edge. His hips quicken and his breath starts to catch in his throat. Jaskier hums, the tremors running through the length of Geralt’s cock. He hollows his cheeks and sucks and laves his tongue, and recalls every little trick he can think of to have Geralt tumbling over the edge—

Geralt’s abdomen sinks in when he comes. His hips lift, burying his cock into the warmth of Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed. He swallows everything he can manage, letting a small dribble of it escape down his bottom lip. Something for Geralt to kiss away later. He lets Geralt slip away from him, crawling up the Witcher’s body to catch his lips. They’re soft and slow underneath his; he’s too lost in the tingling sensations to catch up with the rest of him. Jaskier sets a hand to his cheek, guiding the kiss just enough. He hums at the first swipe of Geralt’s tongue against the seams of his lips.

The hearth crackles nearby. Warmth blooms through the room, burrowing through them and settling into their bones. Harsh winds lash at the walls outside, ruffling the trees just outside on the mountain’s slopes. But in here, entangled in each other, Jaskier has never felt warmer or more sated.

His fingers curl into Geralt’s chest. Underneath his palm, he feels the Witcher’s heart steadily beating. It’s slow – something he had to find out for himself one night while he had his head resting on Geralt’s chest. But the familiar slow rhythm had been a sign that he was still alive – that everything was okay. After hunts where Geralt came back bruised and bloodied and still sour with black blood, his heart would still beat. And that carried Jaskier through those nights.

The Witcher hums against Jaskier’s lips, kissing him deeply. He shifts his hips, just enough for Jaskier’s cock to rub against the arch of his hip. He’s still hard. Something he’s distantly aware of. A thrum of pleasure sizzles through him as Geralt insistently grinds his hips against Jaskier’s.

Jaskier’s gasp is lost between kisses. Geralt reaches down, one of his hands settling over the swell of Jaskier’s ass and encourages him along with every slow dragging grind.

Geralt breaks their kiss, setting their foreheads together and sharing a breath between their bumping noses. He reaches down between them.

Jaskier catches his wrist before it can go any further. “You’re tired, my love.”

There’s a grunt of a protest. The hand easily breaks Jaskier’s hold. His fingers curl around Jaskier’s cock, the right kind of pressure and drag that he knows will have the bard tumbling over. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He burrows his forehead into Geralt’s, pushing back against the Witcher. For what Geralt says about him and his hands, the Witcher has his own talents. Callused, sure fingers stroke him.

“Geralt,” he breathes, leaning forward to try and catch the man’s lips. A low whine slips out of his throat when Geralt turns his head slightly. Jaskier’s kiss lands on the corner of Geralt’s lips; where a small smirk is starting to tug.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish. The sight of a still flushed and sweat-beaded Geralt beneath him, the soft rumble of encouragement from the core of his chest, it’s far too soon when Jaskier’s breath catches and he comes over Geralt’s abdomen. He barely has any time to catch his breath before Geralt hums, letting him go only to drag his fingers through the mess and set it to his lips. “Have some mercy, you bastard,” Jaskier gasps.

Geralt chuckles. Jaskier narrows his eyes at him before he hums stubbornly into another deep, toe-curling kiss. His moan catches in his throat at the taste of himself on Geralt’s lips. He can only presume Geralt still lingers on his tongue; if the Witcher insistently trying to delve into his mouth is anything to go by.

They pull apart when the window shutters start to rattle. A storm apparated out of nowhere. Heavy, rain-laden clouds had been lingering over a nearby ridge, not bothering to budge no matter how many gales washed in. Though as soon as the sun began to set and Vesemir returned with his latest cart of supplies from the village, the first of the rain fell. And it’s been lashing the stones of the keep ever since. The winds have picked up, howling through any crack in the mortar they can find. But with the hearths lit and most, if not all of the Witchers, burrowed into their beds for the night, the only thing to do is to wait out the storm.

Jaskier hums, regarding the windows for a moment. The warmth of the room only buries deeper into him. Geralt’s bed is soft and plush and everything he needs, especially with a boneless Witcher within it, already beginning to let sleep lap over him. Jaskier burrows into his side, throwing an arm and a leg across Geralt to keep him where he is. His Witcher is known to wake early and wander.

A rumbling sort of purr slips out of Geralt’s chest just as Jaskier buries his face into the hollow of the Witcher’s neck. His skin still smells faintly of lotions and bathing oils, and underneath it all is the shared musk of the two of them. The storm can do whatever damage it likes outside. Behind walls of thick stone and entangled with a wolf in a burrow of their own, Jaskier lets his eyes flicker shut and sleep wash over him.

* * *

He really needs to thank Yennefer of Vengerberg.

He’s been toying with the idea for a couple of days now. But how does one thank someone for this sort of gift? Does he even need to? It’s...peculiar, to say the least. But they’ve always been a bit peculiar and he can’t imagine this being the strangest thing either of them has ever done. Jaskier jogs quickly through any hint of an afterimage he can muster about past bedmates and...no, this definitely isn’t the strangest thing he’s ever done.

The sorceress is frightening. A chaos swirls within her that she could lash like a whip at anything or anyone who irritates her. And Jaskier has a particular talent at irritating her just by existing. He’s spent so much of his years skirting around her, avoiding her completely if he can manage it. But something has tied her to Geralt, the same force that’s tied them to Ciri too, and she’s become a steady figure in Geralt’s life ever since.

Gods alive, how does one even approach it?

_Thanks for telling me to fuck my lover. It’s really brought us closer together._

Jaskier’s tongue sours at the thought of it. If he could slap his own mind, he would.

The sorceress has a talent of being able to read his thoughts just fine. So he keeps his mind suitably silent whenever he’s around her, making sure to void his skull of all thought whenever they meet each other in the corridors or in the grand halls.

 _You know what_ , he thinks one day, looking out on to the forests surrounding the keep, contemplating a walk. _It’s fine. Forget about it—_

“Something on your mind, bard?”

Jaskier glances over at the sorceress joining him by the gate. The dirt path that leads down the mountain breaks off into the forests in well-worn patrol paths. Because of the wolf’s den being here for as long as it has, there’s little to fear in the way of monsters or curious eyes. The next humans to see are at the bottom of the mountain in the first village. The next monster is even further than that.

Yennefer is dressed in a simpler dress, but one that is still as dark as the night and somehow sparkles anyway. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders and her back, gently swaying with the post-storm breeze.

Jaskier thins his lips. “I don’t know, witch. Is there?”

Yennefer’s laugh is something ethereal; light and airy. It sounds like it belongs on the lips of a noblewoman, a princess. Not someone harbouring enough magic to level this whole mountain and bury them all within it. She turns her face to the sky, letting the weak sunlight try its best to warm her skin. Breezes still slip through the keep, though, ruffling the fur linings of her cloak. “Are you going for a walk?” she asks timidly, nodding to the paths.

Before Jaskier can even think of an answer, Yennefer has already started striding off. She bundles the lapels of her coat around herself, burying her reddening nose into the scruff lining of her cloak.

Jaskier jogs after her.

The walk into the forest is quiet. Words perch on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but none seem to want to wander out. He remembers the early years with Geralt; the ramblings about anything that came to mind, and the leaps his minds went from one topic to another. But now—

He isn’t sure if it’s just Yennefer, if some part of him is still afraid of the sorceress, but he doesn’t feel the need to talk. He looks around at the forest’s trail. Last night’s winds knocked a few branches of trees, tossing them carelessly into the thickets and undergrowth. A few of the thicker branches already have their bark scraped off. Jaskier thins his lips. Stags have been through here, he notices, reaching out to run his fingers along the grooves. Yennefer walks on ahead, taking in the flowers and herbs that linger throughout the deep winter. She plucks a sprig of small white flowers, humming as she presses them between her gloved fingers.

Jaskier eyes the plant. “I didn’t know _arenaria_ grew this far north.”

Surprise flashes across the sorceress’ face. She lifts the flowers to her nose, catching the faint scent. “They don’t,” she hums, “but I wouldn’t put it past Vesemir to grow all sorts of things up here.”

“Geralt uses it for White Gull.” Jaskier’s face sours at the mention of the drink.

Yennefer’s laugh is light. “Have you tried it?”

“Yes, after he said that I shouldn’t.” To be fair, Geralt had been waving his special Witcher Home Brew in front of his face, proclaiming about how strong it was. Stronger than vodka and any other spirit he can ever remember drinking. So he pestered the Witcher for a sip – _only a sip_ – and he’s never had the stomach to even look at it since.

Yennefer hums, putting the crushed plant back into the brush. With a flick of her wrist, life returns to it; weaving the stems back together and blooming the flowers again. Her magic has this ability to floor him, no matter how long he’s spent meeting other sorcerers and mages. Walking the path of the Continent with a Witcher will make someone see all sorts of things.

Yennefer keeps walking. Jaskier follows behind, content to just wander the trails and take in the flora that managed to survive the storm. Some of the evergreen trees still stand rooted into the ground, unmoved by the winds. They’ve been here for decades, possibly centuries, if the size of their trunks is anything to go by. Jaskier’s never gone too far into the forests, not without Geralt at least. Not because of animals or monsters potentially lurking within the trees, but just for company. Geralt strolls along the trails whenever he has a free moment, content to let silence settle over him as the breeze blows through and the birds chatter overhead.

With Yennefer, the feeling is the same. She turns her eyes to the canopy stretched out overhead, blinking at the small streaks of winter sunlight that manage to break through. After a few nights spent sheltering from rogue storms, it’s nice to have the days be still and peaceful.

“How are you, bard?” Yennefer suddenly asks, not bothering to direct the question over her shoulder as she takes in the reaching branches overhead.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. This could be a trap. Yennefer has every capacity to be polite, but she’s also a maelstrom when she wants to be. And Jaskier really doesn’t want to be turned into a tree and left here to rot—

“I’m fine,” he says slowly, measuring the words on his tongue. He regards her for a moment.

Yennefer chuckles. “I’m not planning on striking you down out here, bard. You can stop looking at me like I’m going to turn you into a shrub.” Yennefer reaches out and trails her fingers along the thorny brambles of a long-vacant rose brush. “A bird, perhaps. You’re so fond of your songs.”

That seems more likely. And he’ll be still able to follow Geralt around, perched on his shoulder incessantly squawking and chirping until Geralt has him churning over a campfire.

“Geralt seems happy,” Yennefer lilts, clasping her hands behind her as she strolls. The small smile playing with the corner of her painted lips threatens to break into something wicked. “From what I’ve seen in the last few days, he has a proper spring in his step.”

_For fuck sake—_

“I suppose you want me to say thanks or something,” Jaskier laments, choosing to forget about the notion that he would have done so anyway. Yennefer helped him crack open this new side of Geralt, one where the last of his walls has crumbled down and they can entwine together.

“A little bit of gratitude wouldn’t hurt,” Yennefer replies. When they stop, it’s on the outskirts of a clearing. The lake that sits swaddled within the splints of the mountain stretches out for a few miles. Some of it is a runoff from the streams keeping the keep’s baths warm, but by the time the water reaches the lake, it’s as cold as the river. The birds that would roost in the trees nearby have long since fled south for warmer winds. So Jaskier swallows. The air is still and quiet, with nothing but the rustling of the treetops overhead sounding. Yennefer takes a measured breath. “For all of our games and comments, bard, I wanted to commend you on making him happy.”

And that’s...not what he expected. Jaskier blinks.

Yennefer’s lips thin for a moment. “He deserves happiness; the stubborn, emotionally-challenged prick that he is.”

Jaskier measures his words. For the first time in a long time, he finds himself having nothing to say. A crack has formed in the sorceress’ resolve and he’s allowed a peek inside. He’ll cherish the chance to see what’s behind Yennefer’s usual icy facade; to understand her, if not to hold over her in arguments to come in later winter months.

Yennefer looks down at her boots, starting to be scuffed from the forest’s trail. She doesn’t seem particularly concerned. “The world hasn’t been kind to him.”

Jaskier watches her carefully. “The world hasn’t been particularly kind to you either.” He knew how entangled they were at one point. How much they still are. Destiny has their threads knotted together. It’s a terribly confusing sort of web they’ve all found themselves trapped in; a web not even concerning them, but Ciri. The girl has been spending her days with her uncles, keen on learning all the ways she can take someone bigger than her to the ground.

Something flashes over Yennefer’s face. Her gaze flickers over to him for a moment, quiet and regarding. She hums. “The world isn’t kind to begin with,” she says stiffly, gathering the lapels of her cloak and striding out to the lake’s edge. The water is as still as a grave, with a bare ripple only slipping through from a passing breeze. A few winter birds stubbornly roosting nearby sing out as soon as Yennefer and Jaskier break the cover of the trees. Jaskier trails behind her, watching how easily she moves and how her surroundings don’t seem to bother her at all. She silences the wind and the birds by just keeping her head high. The magic flowing through her veins doesn’t even have to shimmer.

They stop by the lake’s edge, watching the water for a moment. It’s a vacant lake, one Geralt has taken him to before. When all of his fears about drowners and kelpies and sprites were soothed, he followed Geralt into the lake and spent hours lazily swimming around. Now though, Jaskier shivers at the memory.

Their walk takes them around the edge of the lake, occasionally looking out on to it and the trees shielding it from prying eyes. By the time they’re back at the clearing’s entrance, stepping back on to the trails to head back to the keep, the midday sun is starting to fall beneath a nearby ridge.

They see the peaks of the keep come into view by the time the winds start to lash through the trees. Jaskier looks to the canopy, at the treetops shuddering at each gust of wind that picks up. Jaskier bundles his cloak around himself. The further into winter they trudge, the shorter the days get. The promise of a warm bed and a Witcher waiting for him back in their room staves off the worst of the chill. A few steps away from getting back on the main road leading into the keep, Jaskier hears it. A bare whisper as a new breeze blusters through the ridge.

“You’re welcome, bard.”

* * *

“You never answered me, by the way.”

Geralt hums, a question lilting the end of it. His fingers dust along Jaskier’s bare shoulders. The nights are terribly long during the winter, seemingly never-ending. But to be curled up in a bed with Geralt, bare skin touching and sated and lounging. Their bellies are full and warmed from dinner, and the nearby hearth crackles as the newest wooden log snaps and breaks into the flames. When he finally bothers to chase after whatever it was that Jaskier said, his voice is nothing more than a contented and sleep-lulled rumble. “I never answered you about what?”

“Did Yennefer ever fuck you?”

The fingers trailing over his shoulder blades freeze. Jaskier turns to look up at his Witcher. “I’m not judging,” he quickly follows up, noting the perplexed look that has settler over Geralt’s face. “I’m just...” he drums his fingers over Geralt’s chest. “Intrigued.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “ _Intrigued_?”

Jaskier hums. “The mechanics of it, I mean. I’ve heard about it before. Brothels in the larger towns can be _very_ accommodating if you know what to ask for.” Not that he’s ever asked for it, though he’s been tempted. One doesn’t get to go through years of being in Oxenfurt without coming to terms with the whole spectrum of sexual activity that sparks between students in confined quarters. And Jaskier _likes_ sex. He’d go as far as to say that he loves it. And with Geralt? It’s spectacular. But thoughts still linger in the back of his mind; faint images he’s been trying to paint of his lover entangled with someone else. He doesn’t know how telling it is for him to realise that no flare of jealous sparks in his core when he thinks about it.

He’s just...intrigued.

Geralt seems less so, his jaw already threatening to clamp down before anything can slip out. The keep has been safety for him, and his room even more so. With Jaskier curled against him, both of them buried underneath heavy blankets and furs staving off the worst of the mid-winter chill.

Jaskier pats his chest. “You don’t have to tell me every sordid detail, darling,” he lulls, curling his fingers into the centre of Geralt’s chest. Underneath his fingertips, the Witcher’s heart quickens. Geralt watches him, a perplexed and curious look still settled on his face.

The next thing to fall out of Jaskier’s lips does so without even doing him the favour of consulting his brain. “Would you ever like her to again?”

A war of thoughts storm behind Geralt’s eyes. After a moment, his brain seems to turn the lights off completely. His face is void of any hint of emotion or thought.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “Just a thought,” he hums, setting his head back down on Geralt’s chest. Underneath his ear, he can hear and feel the Witcher’s heart start to quicken again. A small smirk tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lips. He leaves the Witcher with the thought, happy to let sleep stalk forward from the shadows of their room and tug him under. The last thing he feels as he drifts off is Geralt’s fingers carding through his hair, and a soft hum rumbling out of his chest.

* * *

Yennefer regards the scene in front of her coolly, with not a lot of emotion, or anything, flashing across her face. She’s always been good to keep her emotions in check, despite many thinking her reckless. The great hall is always either full of dozing wolves, sated after a day of training or laborious chores and full and warmed bellies of food. Mismatched chairs sit scattered around the hall, but all gathered facing the large ornately carved hearth. Its fire never seems to go out, always pluming heat through the main hall of the keep, where the wolves spend most of their time. But now—

Jaskier sits in his usual spot – a chaise lounge that he usually lures Geralt on to one way or another. Lounging along it, he holds a half-full goblet of wine in one hand, while another and a bottle sit nearby on a stray wooden table.

It all looks terribly familiar. Even the slight quirk of Jaskier’s lips when he spots Yennefer slowly wandering over seems like an afterimage. “Hi,” he says a bit too cheerfully.

Yennefer stalks over, quietly regarding everything she sees. She lifts her chin. A greeting or a challenge. _Hello_ or _What The Fuck Are You Up To?_ A healthy mix of both. Still, she scents the light spices drifting through the air. She quirks an eyebrow at the bottle sitting in front of Jaskier. She doesn’t need to ask how he broke into her stash of Toussaint wine, though she would commend him on being brave enough to venture into her chambers; probably hoping she wasn’t inside, ready to curse at a moment’s notice.

Yennefer’s shawl slips off one of her shoulders. It’s loosely draped around her, and she holds the lapels together in one hand. While the halls and the bedchambers might be heated, some of the hallways are still freezing, even with layers wrapped around themselves. The Witchers fair that bit better, surely used to the chill the halls of the keep hold. But for Yennefer and Jaskier and Ciri, layers are needed. Or, if you’re Jaskier, a Witcher to begrudgingly gather you close and chase off the chill.

She takes a seat beside the bard, her eyes flickering shut for a moment as she languishes in the hearth’s heat. Her ears twitch as wine is poured into a goblet. “I hope you don’t mind,” Jaskier lilts, putting the bottle to the side and all but _lounging_ back into his chair. He has the space to stretch out his legs, and he does, and throws an arm haphazardly over the chair’s back. “Toussaint wine is a weakness of mine. And you have quite a lot of bottles stored away.”

Yennefer hums, looking to her goblet. Jaskier’s generous with his servings. The goblet sits mostly full, almost luring her in. She sighs. “I have a long winter to weather, bard,” she says, taking her glass and toeing off her boots so that she can curl her legs underneath her. Toussaint always has the best wine. They have the valleys and the seasons for it. Crates of bottles flow out of the province every year, and Yennefer makes a point of getting a whole of some. She swirls it around, letting the aromas mingle together. Jaskier likes wine too, but after seasons of travelling on the road, from one tavern to another, with a rare lord’s or duke’s hall in between, the wine has been watered down and thin.

He’s been in the Witcher’s company for years. He understands how his brain works; and he happily let the thought fester. _Would you ever like her to again_? If he’s completely honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind. At all. He’d be all for the idea, actually. And some part of him whispers that he probably should have a problem with it. Striding to and looking through a cracked and broken window to check if his best friend was alive after a mansion caved in; afterimages of a mountain’s cliff and curses words and a lonely walk down the slopes, with shattered pieces of his heart crumpling within his chest. Maybe someone else might have hated her. He did, for a time. And maybe that same someone would still hate her, even now. But he can’t find the energy to, and doing a quick sweep around his mind, he can’t find anything left to hang on to in terms of a grudge.

And she’s beautiful. Strikingly so. He has no qualms whatsoever about inviting her to bed with them.

Now he just has to navigate the invitation, while keeping his body parts firmly attached to him, and not cursed into an inanimate object for the rest of time. Jaskier takes a measured sip of wine. Toussaint wine is strong. Not as strong as anything the Witchers might brew within their keep, but with how alluring the wine tastes, he can understand why people get lost within it.

A long moment stretches out where neither of them says anything. It’s not an uncomfortable moment; like how silences tend to settle over them when Witchers and sorceresses and bards and children are gathered in the main hall for the night, relaxing by the fire with full and warmed bellies and ale slowly seeping into their veins.

But Jaskier’s fingers drum against the neck of his goblet. He could let his thoughts run wild. Yennefer has scolded him for thinking too loud on multiple occasions. Though he can’t tell if it would be worse that way – if the sorceress saw into his mind and she was there, with Jaskier and Geralt. _No_ , his tongue sours. That would be a sure-fire way of being thrown through a portal into a lake.

So he forces it out through his lips instead, fighting to get each word out before his mind can catch up with him.

“Geralt and I would like to invite you to bed,” he breathes out, “with us. If that’s something you would like to do. I’ve already talked to him about it, and as long as you’re okay with it, then he’s fine with it too. I am. I’m okay with it, I mean. You’re, gods, you’re a beautiful woman. A scary woman, who’s looking at me with some pretty intense eyes right now, but the choice is yours.” Jaskier lifts a shoulder in some resemblance of a shrug, as if stating _there you go, do with that information what you will_.

Yennefer hums. It’s a long and terrifying moment before she says anything. When she does, her voice is low and it shakes through Jaskier and burrows into his bones. “Sure.”

It takes him a moment for the answer to even register with him. Jaskier stares at her for a second longer than he should, if the small lift of her chin is anything to go by. Jaskier’s breath almost catches in his throat. “You’re—Sure? You want to?”

Yennefer nods. “Yes,” she says slowly, as if Common Speech hadn’t reached Oxenfurt or Redania. Violet eyes take him apart, travelling from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots. It’s scrutinising, even though she means it to be appraising. Jaskier can’t help the small shiver that shakes up his spine. “If both of you are alright with it, of course.”

His tongue sits heavy in his mouth. “Yeah.” Geralt was already awake by the time Jaskier opened his eyes this morning. The same confused look still wrinkled his brow, but at least he could string a sentence together. It wouldn’t mean anything – not in the way it probably should. Sex was sex and that was it. Jaskier didn’t have to worry about the sorceress and her destiny-tie to the Witcher spiriting him away.

This would be for Geralt, and Jaskier, in some selfish sort of way. He isn’t going to sit here and lie to himself – ever since he cracked open Geralt’s last wall of resolve, he’s been imagining all sorts of things Geralt must have gotten up to. And each flickering image that blinks in front of him has his blood singing.

He drains the last of his wine. A half-full bottle still sits between them. He wants to be lucid; pliant and warmed, but he wants to keep his mind intact. Yennefer sips the last of her wine, nodding to the bottle. “Bring that with you, bard,” she says idly, gathering the lapels of her shawl and already striding to the hall. “We’re in for a long night.”

* * *

Geralt is old. It’s a fact that he’s slowly gotten used to with every passing sun-turn. There are days where he can’t even remember how old he is, and the memories furthest back in his mind have started to blur and fade into afterimages. He’s experienced quite a lot of the world, so not many things are left to surprise him.

But as soon as he steps into his room for the night, letting the door click shut behind him, what’s inside has him pausing for a moment.

Jaskier is a familiar sight. Geralt’s room has become their room. And he often retires earlier than the Witcher, so that by the time Geralt pulls himself away from a game of Gwent with his brothers, or drinking with Vesemir, he can slip into an already fluffed bed and curl around his bard.

Geralt does blink at the sight of Yennefer standing in the middle of his room, though. She looks at him from over her shoulder; long black hair tumbling down the length of her back. His nose wrinkles. The familiar sting of sea salt and a wisp of desert rose oil. As the winter months wane on, with no real sight of them easing just yet, lotions and oils and soaps tend to be left down in the baths and shared among each other.

Jaskier smells like desert roses. Over time, Geralt acquired the slight musk of it too.

Smelling it on Yennefer, it slowly curling around her usual scent of lilac and gooseberries, it’s confusing. Jaskier is already striding over to him, barefoot and bathed. A loose pair of breeches sit lowly slung on his hips while his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. A loose smile curls along his lip as he reaches for Geralt’s hand, interlocking their fingers together. His other hand wanders up Geralt’s arm, palming over his bicep. “This is for you,” Jaskier mumbles, just for the two of them. Just over his shoulder, Geralt watches Yennefer turn away to walk further into the room, idly tracing her fingers along the mantelpiece of the hearth, mapping out the room she’s never been in before. Jaskier squeezes their hands. “If you don’t want to do this, just say so. And if we’re halfway through, and you don’t want this anymore, just say so too. We’ll stop.”

Geralt’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. A maelstrom of thought swirls around his mind. Everything is too loud. He takes a measured breath. “I want...” The words perch on the tip of his tongue. He’s always been shy with his words. Jaskier does all the speaking for them. Geralt’s brows knit together. “I want this,” he rumbles quietly, just for the two of them.

Jaskier hums, leaning up to press a kiss to the arch of Geralt’s cheekbone. Geralt doesn’t miss how the bard draws in a steady inhale through his nose, quietly scenting the bathing oils he had used earlier. Jaskier’s hand tightens around his. “Alright,” he mumbles, gently tugging Geralt further into their room. “If you want us to stop...?”

“Marx.” Because even the utterance of Jaskier’s rival’s name would churn the bard’s stomach. It started as a joke between them both, and when their sleeping together got progressively more adventurous, a line needed to be drawn somewhere.

Jaskier hums. The name must still sour his tongue, but he gently guides Geralt over to their bed. Yennefer stalks along the shadows of the room, keeping to herself for the moment, quietly watching through a curtain of black hair. Bathed and pliant and soft, Geralt lets himself be guided to sit at the foot of the bed. He’s wearing lighter clothes, with his armour taking up a permanent seasonal residence on a mannequin to gather dust. With no monsters lurking in the forests or curious humans travelling up the slopes, armour and weapons are rarely needed.

Jaskier’s dexterous fingers tug at the laces of his shirt, revealing the top of his chest. His skin is still flushed from the warmth of the bath, and the sea salt scrub Jaskier insists he uses to dig the worst of dirt and mud out. He watches Jaskier’s nose flare at the familiar scent of oils and lotions. The ends of Geralt’s hair drip water on to his shoulders, still damp from the bath. He doesn’t bother with drying it anymore; Jaskier likes to run his fingers through it, especially when it’s wet, hoping blearily that Geralt’s youthful curls will return one of these days. The most he’s ever managed to lure back is short-lived waves that Jaskier delights in. If he manages to sneak a few braids into Geralt’s hair, he likes leaving them in as long as possible so that he’ll have ringlets the next day.

Once most of the laces have given way, Jaskier tugs at the shirt. _Off._ Geralt does what he’s told. The shirt is dropped to the side, instantly forgotten about before it has even hit the floor. Geralt’s legs part, letting Jaskier steps into the space. And Jaskier’s hands wander. The dust the Witcher’s shoulders, quietly mapping out muscle that he knows so well. Jaskier pauses over every ridge and line of scar, pausing and letting his fingers run over them. Some have lost feeling. Others are sensitive. And Jaskier knows which is which and where they are.

He’s distantly aware of movement somewhere else in the room. The light scrape of a chair’s legs dragging across the paved stone floor. He glances over his shoulder, loath to tear his eyes away from the shirtless Witcher gathering him close. Yennefer toes off her heeled boots, leaving them by the foot of her chair as she pads over. The shawl stays slumped over the back of the chair. Her dress clings to her like all the rest of them; showing the swing of her hips as she stalks over, each ripple of movement that has Jaskier’s skin bubbling into gooseflesh. And she hasn’t even touched him yet – much less looked in his direction. She watches Geralt, a small curl to the corner of her mouth. Geralt’s already starting to slip away, his arms slowly winding around Jaskier’s waist to gather him close.

Yennefer stays just outside an arm’s reach away, still leaving them to their business. She perches on the edge of the bed, quietly observing.

Jaskier draws a steady breath. “You could join us, you know.”

A slow smirk curls along Yennefer’s painted lips. “I know,” she muses, taking a measured sip of wine. She lets it sit on her tongue for a moment. “I’m perfectly happy watching you both for the moment.”

Geralt’s hands palm the arches of his hips, slowly winding around and cupping his ass. He tugs the bard closer, resting his forehead against the centre of Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier hums. He can’t help but keep her in the corner of his eye as he cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tilting the Witcher’s head back so he can lean down and kiss him. Geralt’s hold on him tightens.

The first touch of plush and warm lips against his has everything else slipping away. He even forgets, for a brief moment, that they aren’t alone. He frames the Witcher’s face with his hands, tilting his head back just enough to kiss him as deeply as he can. A moan slips out of Geralt’s throat. Jaskier tries to slip his smile away. He breaks them apart. “Already so needy,” he marvels quietly, brushing his thumbs over Geralt’s cheeks. The scratch against the stubble prickling there. Just over his shoulder, Jaskier spots the sorceress. She takes a measured sip of wine, cocking her head slightly. Though she can only see the back of the Witcher, she must see how slackened his shoulders are and how he’s clay in Jaskier’s hands. The arms around his waist don’t budge as they hold on to the bard. If it were another night, Geralt would have caught him already, heavy arms braced on either side of his head or sure hands mapping out every stretch of skin.

Geralt tugs him back into a kiss. Jaskier hums against his lips. His first reach at claiming back control. Geralt always has control. If he ever wanted this to stop, he just has to say so. But he’s so good for letting Jaskier hold the reins and do whatever he likes. So his teeth catch on Geralt’s lips, gently tugging. A slight reminder.

The bedsheets rustle. Unclasping buckles and straps follow. Yennefer’s dress sinks to the floor, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He thinks back to Rinde, looking in the window and watching her dexterously pull Geralt apart. A mansion’s crumbling wall stood between them then. Now, he could reach out and touch her for himself. A black lace bodice that clings to her, with a neckline that dips deep between her breasts. Underwear that clings to her hips, the same fine lace that so many of Toussaint’s rich are known to add to every piece of clothing they own.

Geralt turns his head slightly, catching sight of the sorceress out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier can feel a shudder run through him. He just about catches a laugh that threatens to huff out of him. “What do you think, darling?” he purrs lowly against the shell of Geralt’s ear. A short whine slips out of Geralt’s throat. Jaskier’s smile grows wicked. “Do you want her to touch you?”

Something dances within Yennefer’s eyes – the same something that could be curling Jaskier’s lip. She regards Geralt for a moment, still keeping Jaskier close. She doesn’t wait for an answer from Geralt. “You still want the bard’s touch,” she notes, reaching up to brush her hair back from her shoulders. Black waves cascade down the length of her back, almost lost to how dark her bodice is. Through the lace appliqués, Jaskier can see skin. Soft and supple like the rest of her. Yennefer languishes in the things power can gift to her. Jaskier has seen the crates of Toussaint wine and the silks and gems she wears like armour.

Geralt makes some sort of affirmative noise. Jaskier’s heart clenches. He nods further up the bed. “Come on then, my love,” he gentles, catching the bottom of his shirt and wrangling it over his head. Geralt crawls away, setting himself further up the bed to lie among the frankly absurd amount of pillows pushed against the headboard. They prop him up, letting him watch Jaskier’s nimble fingers go to the ties of his braise, deftly slipping them loose before they join his shirt somewhere else within the room. Geralt swallows.

Jaskier has never had a problem with being bare. He’s never had a problem with sex either. Oxenfurt-years passed in a sex-fuelled blur, as did most of his young adulthood. He can’t remember most of it, just because of how frequently he found himself in beds. Stableboys and kitchen maids in his family’s home; students and teaching aides within the walls of the Academy. And since stepping out on to the road, it’s been tavernmaids and sons of blacksmiths, the lords and ladies of holdings and their intendeds. And then it was Geralt, and it will stay as Geralt. But the tightening of his core is always the same, though Geralt looks at him with familiar golden eyes and his blood is set alight. His sure fingers suddenly fumble and he’s distantly aware of control slipping away from him as he crawls up the bed. He catches the waistband of Geralt’s breeches, tugging. _Off_.

Geralt fumbles and it’s a mess of movement, but they’re eventually flung on to the floor. Jaskier’s hands set themselves to any stretch of skin they can find, palming over Geralt’s calves and thighs. He tries not to smile at the sight of the Witcher’s skin already erupting into gooseflesh. His lips follow. He dusts kisses wherever he can, knowing where on Geralt is the most sensitive and lingering there. Just out of the corner of his eye, he sees the first twitch of Geralt’s cock. And he smirks.

Reaching up and curling his fingers around Geralt’s cock, Jaskier lazily pumps his hand. It’s just tight enough to keep him interested, but not quick enough to lure him to the edge. Though a Witcher’s stamina has been a blessing in the past, restless nights where they’ve met the sun the next morning sore and soaked in sweat and each other’s scent, he does revel in taking his time with the Witcher.

Something akin to a growl lodges in Geralt’s throat, the bare bones of it managing to slip through. Jaskier quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that, darling?” he lilts, letting his fingers loosen around Geralt. The Witcher’s growl only deepens.

There’s a soft chuckle to the side of the bed. “A spoilt little thing,” Yennefer muses from her perch. She’s still away from them, observing, though her goblet is now gone. She lounges to one side of the bed, supporting herself with one hand while the other sits on her bare thigh. Violet eyes narrow at Geralt. “Have you earned any of it, pet?”

Geralt changes. Whatever rumble had been trying to clamber out of his chest drifts away. His eyes soften from his usual glare – aimed at Jaskier whenever he teases and keeps him _just shy_ of where he needs to be. When he meets Yennefer’s eyes, it’s like the sorceress has him levelled immediately. They hold their stare for a moment before Geralt audibly swallows. “No,” he rasps.

Yennefer arches a charcoaled eyebrow. _So?_

The Witcher turns back to him, golden eyes softer now as he almost sinks into the mattress. “Jaskier,” he breathes, “please, let me—let me please you.”

That’s...well, that’s a thing. Jaskier’s words and touches had been teasing, but a form of worship all the same. His words were full of revel and he hoped that he could be gentle enough with his Witcher to show the stubborn old fool that he deserved it, for all that he’s done for the world.

Some part of him wants to glance over to the sorceress. What kinds of games did play? The images that blink in front of him threaten to steal his breath; images that he wants waved away as soon as they appear, only because he knows how easily Yennefer can peer into his mind. But the more lewd images hang around, more lucid than memories.

There’s a quiet huff of a laugh beside him. “You aren’t far off, bard,” Yennefer hums, reaching out to finally touch Geralt. It’s a light thing, a mere brush of her knuckles against the ridge of his cheekbone, but it’s enough to have a tremor shaking through the Witcher. Jaskier watches, rapt. She hasn’t done much to sway the room into her favour, but her presence alone has the air fizzling. She has that effect on most things. The world seems to halt to let Yennefer of Vengerberg pass through.

Geralt’s eyelids flutter closed at the touch. “You’ll be good for the bard, won’t you?” Yennefer lilts, letting her fingers drift to the Geralt’s hair. They card through the damp strands, gently parting them. It’s a gentle touch, something that Jaskier might bestow on him in their quieter moments, but Yennefer’s long, dexterous fingers curl lightly into the strands. A soft reminder.

The Witcher swallows. It’s audible, even over the crackle of the hearth. He nods.

Yennefer hums. “Good,” she says firmly, shuffling back a bit to perch herself among the pillows. Her knee just stays shy of touching any part of Geralt’s head or shoulder. If he turns his head, he might be able to set his forehead against her skin. But when he opens his eyes again, familiar golden globes seek out Jaskier, settling on him as if he were the only one in the room.

Jaskier palms at the Witcher’s thighs. They tremble underneath his touch, as always, but a slight quirk tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. “You’re always good for me, aren’t you darling?” he hums, letting his fingers roam. They dust the tops of his thighs, dusting inside and lightly brushing along his hardening cock. A moan catches in Geralt’s throat. “Will we show the sorceress how good you can be? Or does she know already?”

His own core tightens at the thought of it; Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher, levelled by a lover who can lure the softest and neediest parts out of him with words and touches. He remembers Rinde, though now an afterimage stubbornly settling into the furthest shadows of his mind. He saw Yennefer astride over him, wringing pleasure from them both. And he was tempted to stay – if the elven healer hadn’t of shepherded him away, maybe he would have.

He blinks at Yennefer handing him a glass vial. Oil, he notes. Popping the cap off, the strong scent of citrus stings the roof of his mouth. It’s alluring all the same. The scents of the southern kingdoms where brightly coloured and tart fruits grow in rows of trees. Yennefer returns to her lounge against the pillows, violet eyes watching and observing.

Jaskier lets the oil coat his fingers. He watches the small wrinkle of Geralt’s nose at the sharp scent. It’s not their usual mix; something gentler on the Witcher’s heightened senses, but he can only presume that Yennefer has her own way of driving Geralt mad.

And he does miss the way Geralt’s legs part.

“So very good,” Jaskier mumbles, almost to himself, crawling closer to the Witcher. Anywhere that could touch is touching, skin pressed firmly against skin and heat blooming. Jaskier reaches down, brushing the pad of one finger over Geralt’s hole, languishing in the shiver that trembles through him. Geralt’s body knows him. It knows his warmth and his touch. When the tip of his finger pushes, Geralt’s body yields. Jaskier hums at the tight heat that seemingly pulls him in.

A whine slips out of Geralt’s throat. The bed shuffles, and Jaskier looks up just in time to see Yennefer bending down, curling her torso around Geralt’s head. Lithe fingers card through his hair and scratch at his jaw. “That’s it,” she mumbles through plump lips. Jaskier’s finger delves deeper, already curling and seeking out that one spot that has Geralt’s toes curling. When he finds it, brushing the pad of his finger along the edge of it, he struggles to pull himself away from the sight of the Witcher and the sorceress. Violet eyes travel down Geralt’s bared body, the fingers of one hand following. Every stretch of skin she touches bubbles into gooseflesh and shivers. “Let him in, pet. Let him get you ready for us.”

And Jaskier’s moan gets lost with Geralt’s.

They spoke about it. Everything they’re doing tonight they spoke about, in painfully coloured detail. Even through the hum of wine, they both kept their wits and when a Witcher was lured back to the room, soft and pliant from a bath, they spoke about it some more. But the reminder that it won’t be just Jaskier fucking Geralt, that Yennefer will gladly take up the mantle at some point, his core tightens at the thought.

Some wicked smirk darts across Yennefer’s painted lips. Violet eyes glance up at him, quietly regarding.

_Stay out of my brain, sorceress._

She pushes her voice into his head.

**_You’re airing your thoughts like a foghorn, bard. It’s not my problem that I’m hearing them._ **

Geralt clenches around him. His body knows him so well that within moments, one finger, however skilled, isn’t enough. Jaskier clicks his tongue. “I’m sorry, darling,” he leans down and dusts a kiss to Geralt’s abdomen. It quivers and his cock twitches. A second finger soon joins the first, and Jaskier delights in the sight of strong, sword-wielding hands curling and tightening into bedsheets.

Yennefer hums, nudging at Geralt’s jaw. “He’s a devilish little thing, isn’t he?” she coos against Geralt’s ear. “Keeping you on edge like that.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Not little.”

Yennefer’s smirk grows as her eyes drift. An affirmative hum slips out of her and nothing else.

Geralt’s hips lift and grind down as much as he can, getting Jaskier deeper and where he needs him. The bard is a gracious lover, never truly holding anything out of Geralt’s reach. He likes to tease and play with his Witcher, but he’s benevolent. He sets his lips to Geralt’s abdomen, quelling the quivering muscle. Every brush of his lips against the other’s skin sizzles and sends shivers trembling through Geralt. Each moan and attempt at Jaskier’s name is either caught in his throat or slips out as nothing more than a whisper.

Geralt’s body parts so easily for him. Jaskier lips drift brushing the base of his cock. It twitches and leaks. Humming, the bard sets kisses to the length of it, trying to quell as smile as he hears an audible hitch in Geralt’s breath.

Yennefer hushes him. “Let him work, pet,” she lulls. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sorceress’ legs stretch out. Geralt’s bed is big enough for the three of them, even with the Witcher lain sprawled out in the middle. Yennefer curls around his head and shoulders, while Jaskier keeps to his lower half.

Golden and violet eyes watch him as Jaskier brings the head of Geralt’s cock to his lips. It’s already beading with slick. His tongue darts out, catching the bead, just before he sinks his mouth on to Geralt. The Witcher tenses underneath him. His hips quiver, caught between wanting to thrust up and bury himself in the wet heat of Jaskier’s mouth, or stay still, because he hasn’t been told what to do just yet.

Yennefer seems to keep his attention just fine, dusting a hand over his chest. Geralt’s breath shakes out of him.

Jaskier is skilled with his mouth, and not just with words. Luring siren songs and smiles sent people’s ways have been his weapon of choice for years, before Geralt and with Geralt now. He delights in even luring a Witcher with his voice – _especially_ with his voice. A few sure words brushed along the shell of Geralt’s ear and the Witcher melts into his hands. But he’s become adept at learning what Geralt likes – what works for him and what doesn’t. So he lets himself sink down the length of the Witcher’s cock, letting it rest in his mouth for a moment, before he hollows his cheeks and sucks as he draws back up. At that, the Witcher’s hips twitch upwards.

Yennefer’s touch grows firm. “Steady, pet,” she murmurs, lightly scratching a nail into the meat of Geralt’s pectoral. “Let him do what he likes.”

Geralt’s sigh trembles out of him.

And Jaskier delights. Geralt has always been good to hang on to his every word, but knowing that someone else is there to watch over him while he works, it’s delightful. His fingers don’t stop their movements, delving in and out of the quivering body underneath him while plying him apart. On the next suckle, a light thing just underneath the head of Geralt’s cock, another finger slips in. Geralt’s moan is tighter now, louder and sturdier. Sweat has started to bead over his skin.

Yennefer hums. “How long would you keep him like this, bard?”

He’s loath to pull away from his Witcher, though when he does, he keeps his lips to the dip of Geralt’s groin. “As long as he needs to be kept like this,” he answers simply, glancing up at her. “Though, when he starts to glare at me, or accosts me with a pillow, I tend to move on.”

Yennefer huffs a short laugh. “No discipline,” she tisks, but turns back to Geralt. “What do you think, darling? Do you need more?”

There’s a silent nod, nothing more than a slight lift of Geralt’s chin. He turns, letting his forehead rest against Yennefer’s thigh. The flush of his skin and the beads of sweat peppering any stretch of skin Jaskier can see, it’s telling. He’s aimlessly wandering towards an edge he knows he’ll probably be pulled back from – and that won’t do.

Jaskier lets his fingers slip away. A whine barely slips out from Geralt’s lips before he has a dry hand set against the Witcher’s thigh, gentling. “Patience, my love,” he murmurs, rooting between the ripples of the bedsheets for the vial of oil. He lets an ample pool of it settle into his palm before he curls his fingers around his cock, gently pumping. Every tug has him edging forward, his breath starting to thin. He’ll get inside of his Witcher and he won’t last long. He squeezes the base of his cock. He’ll get Geralt as far as he can, and then—

He looks to the head of the bed, where Yennefer watches him, examining. He pauses at the sight of her violet eyes watching him. He’s never been shy. Never. But his rhythm does stutter slightly. A small hum slips out between Yennefer’s lips, her eyebrow lifting. “Get to it, bard.”

Nothing will ever best the first time he slipped inside of Geralt; even all those nights later, nights of shared pleasure, he still remembers how tightly Geralt’s body had gripped him when he pushed inside. And it’s the same even now. Jaskier’s breath stills as he rests the head of his cock against Geralt’s hole, pausing for a moment to gather himself before pushing inside. He watches Geralt – the Witcher’s abdomen sinking in slightly and his head pressing firmly into Yennefer’s thigh. His eyes are closed, his mouth open in a silent groan. But with how easily Jaskier fucks into him, almost bottoming out immediately, he’s sure that Geralt is treading a thin line of losing himself already.

The sorceress cards her fingers into Geralt’s hair, brushing it back from his cheeks. She leans down, dusting her lips across the ridge of his cheekbone. And they move; pressing chaste and gentle kisses along his skin until they rest against his ear. She murmurs something, something entirely lost to the rushing of blood in Jaskier’s ear, but Geralt tightens around him. Jaskier moans.

Yennefer throws a wicked smile at him. “How does he feel, bard?” she hums, keeping her face close to Geralt’s. The Witcher’s nose flares as he catches the swirling scent of both of them.

Jaskier’s hips move of their own accord. Geralt trembles around him, tightening when the bard thrusts forward, their hips meeting flush and a sharp sound of skin on skin clapping through the air. He bows over Geralt, letting his hands brace on either side of the Witcher’s hips. “Good,” he breathes as his hips roll, “better than good, amazing. So wet and hot and tight. _Fuck_.”

Yennefer hums. She turns just enough to ghost another kiss to the side of Geralt’s face. It shocks him there to see her as the only one of them still dressed; albeit in a form-fitting bodice and underwear. He didn’t doubt for a moment that in their game of grappling at control, she would always win out; like inviting a she-wolf into the den and wondering why she bares teeth.

Geralt’s legs part further, letting Jaskier’s hips delve deeper. He looks down at the Witcher, at the ripple of muscle and how it soaks with sweat. It took too long to get Geralt to let go during sex. Anyone who had lured the Witcher into their beds had done it out of curiosity. He wasn’t familiar with a partner like Jaskier; someone who worshipped and revelled in every kiss and touch. To see him now, splayed out among his own bed and bedsheets, in his _home_ , losing himself, Jaskier has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from finishing too soon.

Yennefer just watches. When she sits back up, Geralt whines at the loss of her. He coils an arm around her thigh, keeping some part of her close as fucked-out sharp sounds grunt out of him with every sure thrust against his prostate. And Yennefer is many things, but she’s benevolent. She still whispers praise under her breath, nudging Geralt along his stumbling towards the edge. But there’s a gleam in her eye. Jaskier will wring his pleasure out of Geralt, and Geralt’s too, and it won’t stop there.

Jaskier’s hips falter. “You’re fucking him after me, then?” he asks, though already knowing the answer. They all know the plan for tonight. And even speaking as if Geralt weren’t even here, it tightens Jaskier’s core. He spares one glance down at the Witcher. His eyes have squeezed shut again. One leg has curled up and around his hip, bringing him flush against Geralt so that every thrust is as deep and sure as the last.

Yennefer nods. She dusts the back of her knuckles along the side of Geralt’s face, revelling in the way his brow knits in concentration. “He’ll be still wet from you, I’m sure,” she comments idly, “already used and broken in.”

And whether it’s the words themselves or the image it paints that has his breath stuttering, he doesn’t know. But the image _is_ delightful. He can picture it now, as if it were happening in front of him. His head drops, eyes focused on where his cock fucks in and out of his Witcher; at the tight heat desperately trembling and clamping around him to keep him in. Once he’s come, drenched the inside of his Witcher with all he has, he’ll let the sorceress have her turn with him. And he’ll be so easy to fuck into; wet and loose. Jaskier’s fingers dig into Geralt’s hip, adjusting his leg slightly so that he can get deep into the body below him.

“Would you like that, darling?” Jaskier grunts, watching Geralt’s slackened expression. Little grunted moans and noises slip out of him, each of them curling the coil tighter and tighter with each sure thrust. “Would you like Yennefer to use you after I’m done?”

Geralt lets his head fall back. Bleary golden eyes watch him. “ _Yes_ ,” he rasps, “yes, please.”

Yennefer hums. “Good boy.” Her praise is murmured, just for him. “Get the bard to come, pet, and then I can have you.”

The walls gripping Jaskier flutter and tighten. His hips snap up, meeting every thrust. Geralt knows how to get Jaskier to come; they’ve been tumbling into beds long enough for him to know what movements and touches will edge Jaskier along. And when the bard’s hips start to stutter again, snapping harder against Geralt’s, the Witcher moans. “Come in me, Jask,” he all but slurs, too far gone already. Yennefer cards her fingers through his hair, tightening around the roots and tugging. Geralt’s breath hitches. “I want to be full of you. Jask. _Please_. Please-”

The wet heat around him is too much. Geralt clamps down, orgasm washing through him. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of the Witcher’s abdomen sinking in, his red and ruddy cock spurting over himself. The sight of it is enough. Jaskier’s fingers dig into Geralt’s thighs, fucking himself in deep and flooding Geralt with all he has. “ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts, falling forward slightly, his hips still moving in half-aborted thrusts.

The air is thick, almost suffocating. Jaskier slumps down, blearily searching for Geralt’s lips. The Witcher hums, a numb kiss lured out of them both. Both of them enjoy the climb; the lure and nudging towards the edge, and then yanking back to draw out the night. But the fall is equally as delightful. His fingers are numb and tingling, with shivers shaking up his spine with every kiss Geralt lures out of him.

He doesn’t want to part with him for even a minute. When he’s too soft to stay inside of the Witcher, and his hips pull away – something that wrings a whine out of Geralt – Jaskier keeps their chests flush. He can feel the sticky tack of cum between them. Geralt brings him down on to the mattress with him, laying him down on his side and touching him with an almost reverence. Sure fingers that have callused over the years from the wilds and hunts now touch him with such gentleness that Jaskier’s chest tightens to the point of pain. He could die here, meet Melitele like this, and he’d be happy.

They only pull their lips away when air thins. Jaskier keeps their foreheads touching, the ends of their noses bumping and sharing a warm breath. A smile curls along the length of his lips. “My good boy,” he whispers, brushing the back of his knuckles against Geralt’s jaw.

The Witcher hums. All of his words have left him for the time being. Gods only know when they’ll return.

Yennefer’s absence from the bed is noticeable, and that’s a terrifying thing. A large bed that never seemed quite big enough for the two of them, Jaskier is pretty sure he’s been fucked, and has fucked, on every corner of it. But with Yennefer gone, some sliver of space seems vacant. He barely has time to lift his head in an effort to look for her before he feels the bed dip and she’s back.

Slung low around her waist is a harness of fur-padded black leather. Jaskier’s eyes drop to the black resin phallus attached to the straps. His mouth dries at the sight of it. It’s big. About the same length of him, but thicker. He imagines how it’s going to feel inside of Geralt, already stretched out and wet, but with some stretch left to give.

Yennefer catches his eyes. “Don’t look so put out, bard,” she lulls, “if you want a turn, all you have to do is ask.”

That... _hmm_. Jaskier swallows, wincing at how loud it seems to sound in the room. He puts the thoughts away for another time.

Geralt lounges back into the bed, all but sinking through the pillows and blankets and the mattress itself. Already having wrung one orgasm out of him, the edge has been taken off. Jaskier watches his Witcher. He’s softer now, lazily stretching a hand out to him. Jaskier smiles, letting their hands and fingers slip together. He just about manages to bite down on a laugh when Geralt pulls him flush against his side, one strong arm coiled around the small of his back to keep him close. Not that Jaskier would even dream of going anywhere. 

He’s met with a long, languid kiss. Soft, bitten lips press against his. Jaskier clasps Geralt’s jaw, gently deepening the kiss as he swipes his tongue along the seam of his lips. It earns a moan. He’s distantly aware of the bed shuffling, of sheets rustling and being kicked away for the time being. Some deep part of him is set alight again. He parts with Geralt’s lips, mourning the loss of having them against his, while he glances down the bed.

Geralt has moved his legs, drawn up and splayed out for Yennefer, letting the sorceress crawl up towards him, settling near. The sharp scent of citrus is back as the glass vial is tossed to the side, lost to the sea of sheets swirling around the foot of the bed. Yennefer settles one sure and gentling hand on Geralt’s flank, as if settling a flighty horse.

Past words wisp against Jaskier’s ear. _Did you spread your legs this easily for Yennefer?_

Words that had slipped out in the moment, but watching what seems to be muscle memory slowly return to the Witcher, his blood is set alight. He lies pressed against Geralt’s side, curling an arm underneath the Witcher’s head to prop him up, to let him watch. “Are you ready, love?” he rumbles, touching Geralt with the same reverence he showed him. “Will you be good for our guest?”

Geralt wets his lips, but nods. He lets his head dip back slightly, golden eyes searching for Jaskier. A small smile curls along Jaskier’s lip. He dips down, catching Geralt in a deep kiss. Their lips are still numbed, and every kiss sends sparks through him.

He’s torn about whether to keep his attentions with his Witcher or watch their guest. But he knows the second she has herself set against Geralt’s hole, if the hitch in Geralt’s breath is anything to go by. Jaskier hums, breaking there kiss to watch Geralt’s face. His brows knit together as Yennefer pushes in, sliding into him easy with her way already stretched and wet. There’s still some give left, but Yennefer fucks through it, bottoming out instantly. Jaskier catches Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently tugging. Another sensation that has the Witcher’s skin set alight. Heightened, augmented senses are the most fun to poke at and tease. And Jaskier has spent his years learning the most efficient way to drive his Witcher insane.

He likes watching Geralt lose himself; but this is something else. When he’s buried in Geralt, or Geralt is in him, he doesn’t have the wherewithal to watch pleasure wash over the Witcher. But now, he can’t tear his eyes away – no matter how much another part of him wants to look at the sorceress, at her slipping into Geralt’s fucked and wet hole. His core tightens and his blood is set alight again.

“Talk to me, my darling,” Jaskier murmurs. A shared, hot breath settles between them, with every fucked-out choked noise Geralt makes dusting his skin. Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair, gently tugging. “Tell me how she feels inside of you.”

Geralt’s moan chokes out. “So fucking good,” he slurs, most of the words lost to Jaskier’s skin as he buries his face into the hollow of the bard’s neck. Each puff of breath against his skin lights it on fire. Jaskier’s fingers tighten. A gentle encouragement. _Keep going_. Words clamber up Geralt’s throat. “I can still feel you,” he breathes, his eyes starting to fog. Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair. The Witcher’s brow knits suddenly, his breath catching.

Jaskier hums. “Are you sore?” Geralt nods. “Do you want to stop?” He notices how Yennefer has stopped moving, hanging on the Witcher for an answer.

Some wounded sound slips out of Geralt. “No, no. It’s _good_ ,” he almost slurs, “a good sore. I-I like feeling you both.”

It seems to be what the sorceress looked for. She gentles one of Geralt’s legs further to the side, letting her slip in deeper. Her hips soon lie flush against Geralt’s. She glances down, watching him flutter and clench around her.

Jaskier swallows thickly. He can imagine the sight from his own time inside the man. Geralt’s moans are lost to the hollow of his neck and his skin is damp from panted out breaths. When the sorceress’ hands move, they skim the outside of Geralt’s quivering thighs, almost gentling, but go to the man’s waist. His hips sit nicely with hers. The first roll into Geralt is long and languid, nothing more than a rock. Yennefer’s movements here are as fluid as they are in the world outside; sure and sensual. Violet eyes that hold a whorl of magic behind them focus in on the Witcher, at the rippling of muscles and the tremble of his chest.

“Of all the things I’ve heard about Witchers, I’ve always been intrigued by their stamina,” Yennefer comments idly, as if they were talking about the weather. She glances over at Jaskier. “Tell me, bard, do you think we could test that at some point?”

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. _We absolutely can_. What does tumble out through his numb lips is something that resembles a “sure” and it earns a light laugh.

Yennefer rolls her hips against Geralt’s, fucking the length of her into him. Jaskier can feel it. The way the Witcher trembles against him, every hitch of his breath at her presumably hitting that spot inside of him that has his toes curling. His legs spread out, letting Yennefer get as deep as she can.

“What do you think, pet?” Yennefer lulls. “When I’m done with you, would you like to have your bard again? Would you like us to pass you between us until we’re done?”

Geralt groans. “Y-Yes,” he rasps, letting his head fall back against Jaskier’s arm. The bard combs his hair back from his sweat-slick forehead, then palming Geralt’s cheek. One of the wonderful things about his Witcher is how the gold of his eyes deepen. A constellation of colours stare back at him – faint lines of amber and silver. Not that he can see much of it, with Geralt’s pupils being as blown out as they are.

Jaskier dusts a light kiss to his lips. “Do you want to come again, darling?” he mumbles, letting his hand drift down Geralt’s chest. He can still feel the slight tackiness of drying cum there. He struggles to move past it, and not run his thumb through it and bring it to his lips. Geralt looks to be teetering on the edge already, and Yennefer hasn’t been the one to say that he can come.

“I’m close,” Geralt groans, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s. They share a warm, wet breath between them, filled with moans and attempts at each other’s names.

“I know, darling, I know,” Jaskier gentles, skimming his fingers over the dip of Geralt’s groin. Just underneath his fingertips, he can feel Yennefer fucking the resin phallus in and out of him. His core tightens. He looks down at the sorceress; her rippling movements and the way her hair curtains around her face as she stares down at them. Violet eyes meet his, holding his gaze for a moment.

Jaskier swallows. He presses a light kiss to Geralt’s forehead, turning to whisper something against the shell of his ear.

Geralt’s moan is tight and his brows knit together as a new wave of pleasure washes over him. But he nods.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. A confused look only grows when she watches Jaskier sit up from his perch alongside the Witcher, ambling down the length of the bed to join her side.

“He wants to come,” he says, struggling to move the heavy tongue in his mouth, “and I don’t think he wants to be alone when he does.”

Yennefer’s regard is levelling. Jaskier struggles not to slink back to where he was. But he does hold her gaze – something he’ll commend himself for later on, because Yennefer of Vengerberg is a scary lady, though he would never say it out loud.

But the sorceress hums, letting her hips still for a moment; pressing wholly against Geralt’s. The Witcher’s moan rumbles out of his chest as he clenches around the resin inside of him, presumably pressing against everything. Jaskier moves; he shuffles around the sorceress, setting himself flush against her back, with his legs spread out to accommodate her against him.

He peers down, his breath hitching at the sight. The black contrasting against Geralt’s skin, the wetness coating the resin and how it shimmers in the gentle glow of candlelight. _His cum_ being used as oil to slick the way—

Jaskier’s hands skirt along the outside of her hips. She’s warm and soft, like every woman he’s ever lain with. When she pushes her hips back against him, a silent request to _get on with it_ , he lets a hand slid slip into the back of her underwear. His breath thins at how wet she is, almost soaking his fingers already.

“Bard,” she sighs. Even now, there’s a slight threat hanging on the end of it.

Jaskier dusts his lips along the column of her neck, paying particular attention to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He tries to swallow a small smile threatening to tug the corner of his lip when her hips begin to move again, her breath thinning in a way he hasn’t heard from her just yet. Jaskier’s fingers delve in and out of her. She clenches around him so beautifully that it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else. But he does look over her shoulder, and down at the Witcher spread out in front of them. Sword-wielding hands now entangled in the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, his cock leaking on to his abdomen, a wonderful flush of colour staining his chest and neck.

Jaskier curls his fingers. “ _Bard_ ,” Yennefer groans, rolling her hips into Geralt and back on to Jaskier’s hand. A bare hint of teeth scrapes the muscle of Yennefer’s neck.

It’s a rhythmic dance of movements that he can’t keep track of at all. He feels Yennefer tighten and clench around him, wetness coating his fingers as he plunges two into her, curling them in the way he quickly learns that she likes. And when her hips aren’t arching back on to him, they’re pushing herself further into Geralt, wringing more cut-off noises out of him in an attempt of getting them over the edge together.

Jaskier watches all of it. He’ll burn this image into some deep, dark far away part of his brain. When they’ll leave this place, wandering out on to a Continent that could look very different from the one they left, he’ll think of this.

Gods alive, whose idea was this? He needs to buy them their weight in Toussaint wine.

The first of them to come is Geralt. The ripple of tightness in his abdomen is familiar. Jaskier’s breath pauses as he watches the Witcher, untouched again, come on to himself. Geralt’s mouth stretches into a long, drawn-out groan – some attempt of either Jaskier’s name or Yennefer’s.

With her hips flush against Geralt’s, letting the Witcher clamp down and cum on the resin cock inside of him, Jaskier delves his fingers deep and curls them. The sound that slips out of the sorceress’ throat he’ll keep in his memory forever – even when she threatens to turn him into a bird for even thinking about it. He reaches down, past the cock attached to her, and seeks out her clit, dusting his thumb over it. She ripples and tightens around him as she falls forward, barely bracing her hands on either side of Geralt’s waist.

“Yenn,” Geralt mumbles, looking up at the sorceress with bleary golden eyes. His voice is nothing but a rumbling rasp. She must meet his eyes, because he continues. “Yenn, come for us, please. Come on his fingers.”

Jaskier groans as she tightens around him, her orgasm wringing through her. She’s impossibly tight around his fingers, clenching down. Some brief thought flashes in front of him. He wonders what it would feel like around his cock; it gives a half-interested twitch at the thought. Yennefer’s moan is high, gasping, and almost echoes around the stones of the room.

Geralt reaches up, numbly tucking her hair behind her ear. His hand falls away, too heavy and numb to stay where it is.

She’s leaning against him, Jaskier notices. He slowly draws his fingers away, not missing the slight discontent sound that slips out of her throat. He would usually part from his partners with a kiss, or a soft gaze and touch, but nothing seems quite right. He does stay close, though, watching Yennefer gently remove herself from an understandably overly sensitive Witcher. Geralt whines, either at the movement or the fact that nothing is in him anymore. Jaskier tries to swallow his own noise at the sight of Geralt’s spread legs staying where they are, even when Yennefer slips away. His legs bowed out to the side show off a well-fucked hole, dribbling with Jaskier’s cum still, but gaping after being fucked out twice. The mattress and its waves of sheets seem to swallow Geralt entirely as he sinks back into them, fucked out and blissed.

Some distant part of Jaskier is still drifting above them, watching the after play out. Yennefer is the more able-bodied and sure-minded among them, carefully sliding from the bed and putting her things away. Jaskier just about manages to stand from the bed, willing his legs to firm up a bit and stop making him look like a newborn colt as he tries to pad over to Geralt’s desk. He gathers his breeches along the way, slipping them on to ward off the worst of the chill insisting on whispering in through some crack in the stones.

Some planning called for snacks and water to already lie in wait for them, and he’s thankful for whoever it was between them to think of it. He’d really rather not have to find his shirt and boots, pad down to the kitchens, and gather what he can find. Gods forbid he would have to brave the cold, but to brave a potential Vesemir? He’s sure of which is worse.

Yennefer gathers her dress, slipping it back on to herself just as easily as it came off. Jaskier fidgets with a dried fig, gnawing it between his teeth. At the sight of the sorceress’s bare back, the lapels of her dress hanging open, he pads over. He clears his throat. “Here,” he murmurs, gesturing to the back of her dress. Yennefer looks at him for a moment, but turns, gathering her hair and curling it over one shoulder.

The tips of his fingers are numb and fumbling but he manages the fastenings all the same. Violet eyes peer over Yennefer’s shoulder, quietly regarding him. “I could have managed myself,” she says lowly, mindful of the quiet that has seemingly settled over the room. There’s not much use in doing up the whole back of her dress for the short walk it is to her own room. Something flickers in the back of his mind. Should he ask her to stay? And then his tongue sours. The thought doesn’t sit quite right with him. They all agreed that whatever happened in bed would happen, and they were content with that. And he can’t imagine Yennefer curling up with them in their bed.

Yennefer threads her hands underneath her hair and draws it back, letting waves cascade down her back. She still looks as put together as she did when she stepped into their room. And a distant part of him hates it. There’s a Witcher slumbering nearby, a bard who’s slowly regaining the feeling back in his limbs; and the sorceress looks as devastatingly beautiful as always, with none of her makeup smudged or a hair out of place.

The room smells like them; the usual musk of both him and Geralt, but something else lilting through it too. Citrus and lilac, enough to be tangy and sour against the roof of his mouth. He wonders vaguely if it’s something they’ll wake up to tomorrow; evidence of what they’ve done greeting them in the morning, not just the fading afterimages of memories.

She gathers her things into one of her arms, letting the other gather her shawl and drape it around her shoulders. The room is utterly still now. Silent and still, and there’s no need for the quiet to be filled at all. He walks over to the door with her, hands awkwardly fumbling by his side. “Thanks,” he mumbles. As soon as it’s out, he wants to slap himself. _Thanks? You just had a threesome with your lover and his ex and you’re saying **thanks**?_

Yennefer’s smile is something that he’s never seen from her before. Sly smirks and the bare twitches of the corners of her lips whenever he stumbles over retorts replying to insults. But this looks...fond. “You’re welcome, bard,” she lulls, keeping her voice low. Her gaze drifts over to the bed, regarding the slumbering form there for a moment. “I...” she bites the inside of her cheek, taking a moment to taste her words. “You make him happy. I want him to be happy.”

“I’m sure he wants the same for you too,” he says just as lowly.

Yennefer nods, thinning her lips. “Alright,” she says, brushing off the first hint of emotion she’s let slip in front of him in months. “Take care of him now. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He doesn’t know why he does it. Something has been prodding at his mind ever since she stepped into the room. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Just as she steps out into the hallway, he follows. He leans into her, dusting a light kiss to the arch of her cheekbone. “Goodnight, Lady Yennefer.”

It tells him a lot that she doesn’t strike him down there and then. He could. He could be turned into a pile of ash. But her cheeks round in a smile, a short laugh lilts out of her. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Know that after Yennefer leaves, Jaskier does go back to bed and cuddles the shit out of Geralt because he was such a good Witcher boy. I just didn't write it because 1) it's a given, and 2) I've been writing this POS for a week now and I'm tired 😂)
> 
> Not only did people not ask for this to be written, but this chapter is also so much longer than it needed to be. It's longer than the first chapter 😂😂 But did I count these words towards my Nanowrimo goal? Yes. And I'd do it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a shocking development, turns out I have a major Geraskefer-Threesome-Yennefer Has All Of The Dom Rights kink. So here we are. Part III.

It’s a different world outside. The winds picked up over the last few hours and howl through the keep’s stone walls. He doesn’t know when the snow began, but Jaskier regards a small slope of it starting to stack up against the windowpane. He swallows the last of his wine, lounging in the warmth that blooms through him.

Yennefer has great tastes in many things, and he can appreciate her choice in wines. Toussaint, harvested and bottled in the late summer. Sweet and with a slight warmth of spice. Even though the keep is shrouded in a thick blanket of dark clouds, with the sun long-since set and snow starting to stack outside, he can taste summer. He looks to the bottle, one of several that Yennefer sauntered up to their room with, armed with ample goblets and everything she needed for the night.

There’s a lithe moan behind him, and a shiver threatens to roll up his spine. Glancing over his shoulder, Jaskier regards the bed across the room. Light comes in the soft glow of a lit hearth sparking and crackling nearby, and a constellation of candles flickering around the room. The further corners of the room are cloaked in shadows, and they’re chilly Jaskier notices as he bundles a shawl tighter around himself, but he doesn’t plan on staying away for much longer.

Until he can get his thirst quenched, he makes do with watching the scene in front of him. His two bedmates stretched out in Geralt’s bed, Yennefer’s hair fanned out against their pillows and rolled back, eyes blinking up at the rafters overhead. Her legs hitched up and spread out, with Geralt buried between them. Long, thin fingers embellished with gold rings wring through and knot in Geralt’s hair, holding on and guiding. Jaskier decides that another glass of wine is very much needed. He won’t get drunk. He knows when to stop himself. But the light buzz sizzling through his veins, combined with the familiar musk of sex lingering in the room, coating the roof of his mouth, it’s addictive and enthralling.

His Witcher does have a wickedly skilled tongue. Jaskier’s lips rest against the edge of his goblet, watching as Geralt licks and kisses their newest companion. A companion, and nothing more. Something agreed by all of them – especially Yennefer. A winter alone in a keep yielding no interest or fun was too much to bear; why not hop into a bed and make the most of the long, cold nights. And both Jaskier and Geralt were _more_ than welcoming.

Yennefer gasps suddenly, tightening her hold on Geralt’s hair. There’s a rumbling groan to match, coming from the depths of the Witcher’s chest. Jaskier’s cock twitches. The long nights that stretch out for hours on end might be too much for him. He has found his match in bedmates, anyway. His fingertips and toes still tingle with the aftershocks of his last release, and staggering over here like a newborn colt took some time and effort. That isn’t to say that his cock, gods bless it, isn’t at least trying to keep him in the game.

He takes his wine with him, because why not? He certainly won’t be back to gather more if either Geralt or Yennefer have anything to say about it, which he thinks that they might. He pads back over to the bed as softly as he can, content to watch the scene in front of him. Even bracing his knee on to the mattress, he’s mindful of jostling or shifting the bed. Yennefer looks like she’s enjoying herself.

This looks like it belongs in one of the upper market whorehouses of Redania – the ones with large circular beds in the middle of rooms, and more men and women Jaskier has any chance in remembering the names of. But instead, they’re here – in Kaer Morhen, during the winter, while a storm rages outside.

Yennefer rolls her head, blearily violet eyes blinking at him. He’s all but lounged along the length of the bed, perched up on one arm while swirling his goblet in another. The sorceress licks her lips; the rouge red paint starting to blot and fade with every bite and kiss placed there. Her breathing is hitching and lithe, thin moans slip out of her with every lap of Geralt’s tongue against her. Jaskier holds the sorceress’ eye for a moment, before glancing down between her legs. “He really does have a wonderful mouth, doesn’t he?” Jaskier muses, lifting his goblet to his lips.

His Witcher’s eyes were closed, but when the first words tumble out of him, golden eyes blink open and search his out. Jaskier lifts his chin. “Are you being good for the witch, my darling?”

Yennefer swats at his bared chest. The shawl he grabbed to ward off the worst of the chill outside of their bed has long since slipped down his shoulders, starting its fall and tumble on to the floor. Yennefer glares daggers at him. “I can still turn you into a chicken,” she manages to warn the bard before her eyelids flicker and she moans.

Jaskier glances down at his Witcher. His hands have moved. They looked good grasping on to and holding Yennefer’s thighs and waist – the sharp contrast between the two of them standing out and stealing Jaskier’s breath. How a strong Witcher can be so gentle with them both still astounds him, and it’s something he cherishes. But now one of those hands remain, splaying Yennefer’s leg further out while his other goes wandering. Jaskier’s eyebrow lifts at the Witcher’s fingers starting to dust down towards his mouth and tongue.

They’ve talked about what they won’t do. Most things were on the table, apparently. Things that even had Jaskier blushing like a virgin maiden. And there were serious, frank discussions about what these interactions did and didn’t mean. Yennefer held love and admiration for both of them, but it wasn’t what Jaskier and Geralt have for each other. Geralt’s time in Yennefer’s life had fizzled out, and there wasn’t any chance in re-igniting it without causing a wildfire. And Jaskier...Jaskier just irritated her too much. Which was blunt, Jaskier will admit, but fair.

He’s watched them fuck before. All those sun-turns ago in Rinde. His blood sparks at the faint afterimages that blink in front of him. But he has them here now, aware of him, and not entirely shy about inviting him in to watch. Or participate.

When the first of Geralt’s fingers slips into the sorceress, Jaskier shuffles closer to her. Yennefer throws an arm backwards, lost entirely within the mound of pillows pushed up against the headboard of the bed. She palms a fistful of fabric before her grip turns white-knuckled. Jaskier’s lips twitch. “He has terribly talented fingers,” he muses, watching pleasure shiver through the body stretched out beside him. Jaskier’s eyes drift down, along every inch of skin starting to flush with colour. “They’re really a delight. Sometimes, he’ll make me come just from them alone.”

Geralt is watching him. He doesn’t need to look down to know that; he can feel the heat of the Witcher’s glare burning into the side of his face. It only makes his smirk grow and set deeper into his lips. Jaskier sets his still half-full goblet on the bedside table behind him and reaches out to dust his fingertips along the ridge of Yennefer’s hips. She twitches and shivers underneath him.

In the few, but constant, nights the sorceress has been in their bed, he’s learned a lot. She has a wicked tongue; in both words she lashes out at both of them and in the way she can lure the lewdest sounds out of them both with just a few well-placed kisses and licks. If one of them thinks that they’re starting to gain control, or that they already have it, they most certainly do not. With one word or look, Yennefer has dominion over both of them. And, if the usual insults and jabs towards Jaskier stop, the sorceress is usually close.

And Jaskier is all in favour of luring her closer; just to be kind.

He leans down and dusts kisses along her shoulder, scenting the familiar smell of all of them embedded into her skin. He’s grown to love the smell of her. When he catches it in the halls of the keep, the familiar and alluring perfume she always seems to imprint on her wrists and neck, he has to stop himself from smiling. He can see what Geralt was talking about; lilac and gooseberries, and how a simple smell manages to stop him in his tracks.

He kisses wherever he can reach, taking time to lavish over her collarbone and drifting down to her breasts. Fingers card through his hair, knotting into it. Jaskier smiles against her.

Geralt must be watching him. The moment his lips dust against her breast, his tongue swiping over a sensitive bud, Yennefer’s hold in his hair tightens. He can only imagine what the Witcher’s fingers and tongue are doing to her. He’s been on the receiving end of it so many times. A thrill of pleasure rumbles through him at the thought. He sucks on her, laving as much pleasure as he can to one of her nipples before going to the other. Bowed over her, he casts his eyes up. Violet, hazed eyes stare right back at him, holding his gaze as moans and half-attempts at their names tumble out of her.

Yennefer moves him. Within seconds, he’s hauled up towards her and met in a fierce kiss. Lips stretched open and tongues slipping against each other. He can feel each tremble of pleasure that shakes through her. The hand in his hand tightens and holds. She’s close, tumbling towards the edge. Just one more nudge would get her there—

He manages to break them apart, setting their foreheads together and the tips of their noses touching. A shared breath mingles between the two of them. Yennefer leans forward, trying to catch another kiss. Jaskier keeps away, smirking at the sharp, frustrated huff that leaves the sorceress’ lips. She could very well make good on her promise to turn him into a chicken, or a tree, or anything else she’s threatened him with in the past. He’s surprised that he’s lasted this long. But moments like these are where he can clamber back some power.

Geralt’s tongue and fingers lure her as close as he can without her tumbling over. Jaskier returns to lounge beside her, glancing down at the Witcher lapping at her folds. It’s wet and messy and the smell of them all is intoxicating. Jaskier’s hand drifts down, fingers ghosting and drifting along her breasts, her trembling abdomen, and the jut of her hip. Yennefer’s eyes narrow.

His fingers delve lower, reaching down and skimming across her swollen and wet clit. Geralt hums against her.

“ _Bard_ ,” Yennefer groans, her eyes flickering closed. He mourns the loss of watching her violet eyes haze with pleasure, and spark when she starts to tumble over the edge, but he keeps his attention on her all the same. He can feel Geralt’s fingers in her, delving in and out, stretching and stroking. And his tongue that laps out to taste and kiss. Jaskier’s fingers keep just enough pressure against her.

“Would you like to come now?” he lulls, letting his voice timbre down into the rumble he knows she secretly likes. “Or would you like one of us in you? I’m sure Geralt is desperate to get inside of you. Look at him.”

Jaskier sets his forehead against Yennefer’s temple, guiding her gaze to the bottom of the bed. Geralt grinds his hips against the bed linens, obedient and staying where he was told to stay, but losing control of the reins slightly as his gaze lifts and meets theirs. He wants to delve into her, fuck her how he knows to fuck her. Besides, it was Yennefer’s idea for the Witcher to use his hands and mouth. And now Jaskier can see her control starting to fray too.

His lips quirk into a smile. He sets his mouth against the shell of her ear, knowing that the words are meant just for her, but their Witcher’s enhanced hearing keeps nothing a secret. “He’s desperate for you. I can tell. Taking orders like a good boy, keeping you pleasured, but humping the bed like an animal in rut.” Jaskier glances down. Geralt is staring at him. His hips haven’t stopped; a slow grind against the sheets that he knows isn’t doing anything but driving the Witcher mad. And Jaskier adds to it with luring words. _Oh, he’s dead_.

“Come on his fingers, Yenn,” Jaskier lilts, letting his lips drift behind the sorceress’ ear and dust her with light kisses. Yennefer moans and shudders, tightening around the thick fingers inside of her. Jaskier swirls two around her clit, edging her closer and closer to the edge. She’s wet and trembling and a few more lilting words will get her there. His lips brush the shell of her ear. “Come for both of us. He’s desperate for you. Look at him.”

And she is. Violet eyes hold Geralt’s gold. All Jaskier can do is whisper what words he can and urge her forward. Geralt’s fingers push in and out, curling inside of her, before Jaskier hears her breath hitch and still. When Yennefer comes, her body stills for a moment, caught in time, before a trembling, high moan shudders out of her. Geralt groans, pulling his mouth away from her for a moment and stilling his fingers. Jaskier pauses too, but doesn’t stray too far away.

Pleasure washes over her, and the fingers curled through Geralt’s hair tighten and pull. The last of it ebbs away and her hold finally falls away.

He can’t remember when they started. The days are so dark that he wonders if the nights even end at all. And the air in the room is so thick, he can’t imagine a time where the room didn’t smell like them. Geralt drifts away when the first small etchings of a frown appear on her brow. Yennefer lounges in pleasure, but can get sensitive – and Jaskier really can’t remember when they started, or how many times they’ve lured orgasms and releases out of each other. Jaskier’s hand slips away from her too, gentling instead over the arch of her hip and back up towards her chest.

Yennefer rolls her head to the side. Jaskier’s hand pauses slightly at the first touch of their noses, a shared breath mingling in between them. She curls fingers into the hair at the back of his nape and drags him into a kiss. It’s deep and messy, but moans are lost to it.

Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze burning into his skin. He has to wonder if Yennefer feels the same. Does she know he’s down there, almost a world away, just watching? He can imagine the Witcher – fists curled into the bedsheets as he follows the curt instructions he was given; _stay_.

Yennefer’s lips linger flush against his even when she parts them. Her fingers smooth against his nape, gentle and kind. The corner of her lips twitches into a smirk. “You have a mouth on you, bard,” she hums, shifting slightly. The linens are lost. There isn’t an inch of this bed that hasn’t seen them. Will they change the sheets before collapsing to sleep? Absolutely not. Will Yennefer bother in padding back to her own room at the end of the hallway? Nope. Good thing the bed is big enough for all three of them.

A low growl rumbles from the foot of the bed. Both of them glance down, quietly regarding the Witcher poised over Yennefer’s hips. Her legs are still splayed out, open and inviting – and Geralt stares at them with an intense glare.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “What do you think, sorceress?” he conspires, turning back to look at the woman stretched out beside him. He’s lulled with wine and his muscles and blood thrum with pleasure. His cock is hard and leaking, and there’s a small sliver of space between him and Yennefer. No matter how the scales seem to tip in their favour, Yennefer is the one holding them in the first place.

Yennefer tilts her head. Lying lounging against the pillows, she looks like a queen firmly in control of a kingdom. She lifts her chin. “Is what the bard said true, Witcher?” she asks, tilting her head and scrutinising him. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Geralt’s breath catches. It’s barely noticeable, but Jaskier sees it. The small hitch in his breath and a twitch in his brow. His gaze drops. He can’t see Geralt’s cock from where he’s lying, but he can imagine how it looks; red and ruddy, leaking and desperate. Jaskier swallows a moan.

The Witcher swallows. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, tilting his head to mimic here. They’ve all played this game long enough – some longer than others, Jaskier thinks. Geralt and Yennefer know what each other are like. Jaskier is just new to it, but he’s a quick learner. And this is what he expected. A challenging look met by another.

Yennefer’s laugh is lithe and airy. She draws her legs up towards her hips and splays them out. She reaches out with one hand, humming as Geralt’s hand finally relinquishes its hold on the bed linen. “Come here, Witcher,” she murmurs, drawing Geralt close and over her. Within seconds, she’s covered on the bed and Jaskier watches him brace his other arm on the pillows beside her head. She’s almost gone from his view, but Geralt is now there instead. A fair trade.

He reaches out, skimming the tips of his fingers over the faint constellation of scars dotted around the Witcher’s side and back. Shivers tremble underneath him. Yennefer kisses him; Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound. Geralt’s hair tumbles down, shielding them both, but Jaskier looks all the same. Geralt’s hips roll against the valley of her hips, rocking them both together and luring thin sounds out of them both. Yennefer threads her arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him close. When she parts with his lips, she doesn’t venture too far away. “What do you want, hmm?”

Geralt’s breath shudders out of him. “To please you,” he rumbles, rolling his hips again. Jaskier just about manages to catch a moan behind his teeth. His fingers skim over the small of the Witcher’s back, feeling how hard he’s trembling underneath him.

Yennefer hums. She curls some of his hair behind his ears, framing his face with her hands. “Me and...?”

Jaskier pauses in his venturing, glancing towards the head of the bed.

Geralt moans. “You and Jaskier,” he gasps. Another roll of his hips, and Jaskier can only assume that his cock must have caught against her folds, if the short, abrupt thrust is anything to go by. But it’s not enough. Geralt rolls and rocks them together, his moans thinning and growing in pitch. “I want to please you both, I—”

Yennefer hushes him. “You do, sweet thing,” she murmurs, reaching down and nudging Jaskier’s thigh. Her deftly kept nails nudge into the swell of muscle. A silent request. Jaskier’s throat bobs. He reaches in between the two bodies in front of him, fingers quickly finding and wrapping around Geralt’s cock. As soon as it’s in his hand, Geralt moans again, with some attempt at Jaskier’s name tumbling out from his lips. Jaskier pumps him, mindful not to reach the edge too quickly. Geralt rocks into his touch. Yennefer’s words flow out of her. “Sweet, silly man, you are always so good for us. You do what you’re told, don’t you? And good boys who follow orders get rewards.”

It’s a joint effort; Jaskier guiding Geralt’s cock to rest against Yennefer while she lifts her hips just enough to let the next rock of Geralt’s hips be enough for him to slip inside of her. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat, a groan slipping out instead. He bows over her, burying his face into the hollow of Yennefer’s neck. Jaskier sets his lips against any stretch of Geralt’s skin he can find, peppering kisses along his side and shoulder blades as he sets about fucking into the body beneath him.

Sure rolls and snaps of his hips. Jaskier’s been fucked by Geralt gods only know how many times. He’s experienced what that cock can do. And he glances down at the sorceress and his chest tightens at the sight of her. Dark hair fanned out amongst the pillows, her eyes beginning to hood, and her mouth stretched open. Jaskier’s lips linger over one of Geralt’s scars for a moment.

The sorceress’ violet eyes sudden meet his. An arm falls away from Geralt’s shoulders and reaches out for him, gently tugging him back towards her. “Are you feeling left out, bard?” she wisps, barely able to let the words out. The bed underneath them could be moving, for all he knows. He doesn’t have to look at Geralt to know that the Witcher’s hips snap against Yennefer’s, driving his cock in and out to the deepest parts of her. Yennefer’s eyes are hazed and blurred. She’s slowly tumbling down towards the edge again, but it’s some way off. She gentles a hand against his cheek. “My other good boy,” she hums. A gasp wrings out of her at one particularly well-placed thrust. Yennefer thumbs against the corner of Jaskier’s lips. He’s powerless to help himself. Yennefer has some sort of charm over him. His lips part and he draws her thumb into his mouth, sucking around it. Yennefer hums, keeping a thought to herself for a moment to muse over it.

“Would you like to fuck him, bard?” she lulls, taking back her thumb and running the pad of it over Jaskier’s bottom lip.

Someone groans at the mention of it. Him. Geralt. Both of them. He doesn’t know. But his core swells and churns at the thought of it. They’ve been entangled together in the past. And he’s sure that Geralt is still somewhat stretched out from a few rounds before. Yennefer’s eyes glint. “I’m sure he’s still open for you,” she murmurs, letting her words wash over him. She turns just enough to address Geralt. “What do you think, sweet thing?” she asks, dusting a hand over Geralt’s sweat-beaded shoulders. The tight groan that’s mostly lost against the hollow of Yennefer’s neck is enough of an answer for him.

The oil is somewhere in the sea of blankets and bed linens. He finds it after some quick fumbling, kicked towards the foot of the bed, and pops the cap open. He knows Yennefer has stretched over just enough to watch him. He fumbles with palming some oil on to his long-forgotten about cock, and just about manages to clamp down on a groan. Yennefer tisks. “Let us hear you, little lark. You have the loveliest of songs.”

Jaskier palms himself for a moment, watching the sure roll and thrust of Geralt’s hips. He clambers closer, behind the Witcher, reaching out and setting his dry hand against the swell of man’s hips. A tight moan leaves him, but Geralt manages to slow and eventually still inside of Yennefer. The sorceress speaks to him. And Jaskier doesn’t have Witcher enhancements, so he can’t make out all of what she’s lilting against the shell of the Witcher’s ear, but he catches snippets of it.

“...such a good boy for us. You feel so good, darling. You’ve done so well for us. Now you get to have whatever you want, and that’s both of us, isn’t it?”

He wants to drown it out, only for the reason of if he keeps listening to it, he’ll come before even coming near Geralt’s ass. And he lets his hand run over the globe of it. Geralt’s hips tremble. He wants to keep fucking into the trembling wet heat surrounding him. Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. He shuffles forward, setting the head of his cock against Geralt’s hole. He can’t help the moan that slips out of him. He was right. Geralt is still loose enough for him, come from a few rounds ago beginning to dry and tack, but it’s enough for Jaskier to use as oil to push himself in. He rolls his hips, stilling his breath, as he pushes his cock into Geralt. The Witcher moans, something that rumbles out of the core of his chest. The movement rocks Geralt into Yennefer, and the sorceress lets out a lithe sigh. She cards her fingers into Geralt’s hair, gathering the Witcher close. “How does he feel, darling? Did you miss him being inside of you? Are you happy now, that you have us both?”

Geralt is beyond words. Jaskier watches him nod against Yennefer’s neck. He trembles around Jaskier; the familiar tight heat gripping him and drawing him in deeper. Jaskier sets his hands on to Geralt’s hips, just letting him relax for a moment. He looks up the plain of the Witcher’s back. He’s tightly strung and one thrust could have him spilling too early. Yennefer watches him from over Geralt’s shoulders, still carding her fingers through his hair and muttering nothings against his ear. After a moment, when he can feel Geralt’s muscles start to wane in his hands, Yennefer lifts her chin.

The first thrust into Geralt has them all moaning. Geralt doesn’t move of his own accord; stuck between Jaskier fucking into him from behind and rocking him deeper into Yennefer below him. He doesn’t know whether or not to rock back against Jaskier or into Yennefer, but Jaskier seems to be moving them fine just on his own. He sets his knees deeper into the mattress, rocking and thrusting his hips until a firm rhythm is set. The air in the room starts to thicken with musk. It coats the roof of his mouth and threatens to choke.

Jaskier lets his head hang, watching the slide of his cock in and out of Geralt’s ass. He’s wet and open, and Jaskier thumbs the edge of his opening, watching how Geralt trembles around him. Through the moans and thinning, gasping breaths, he can hear Yennefer talking. Blood gushes through his ears, but he struggles to hear her all the same. The coil in his core is tightening, and from the way Geralt starts pushing back against him, his walls trembling and tightening around him, he can only assume Geralt is on his way to the edge too.

Yennefer splays her legs out further, letting Geralt get deeper and deeper into her. “Are you close, sweet thing? Are you going to come for us?” she asks, letting her head fall back among the pillows. Geralt’s teeth bare and set against the column of her neck, grunting and moans caught behind clenched teeth. Jaskier can only see one side of his face, but he knows that the Witcher’s brows must be pulled in as he chases down release. Jaskier catches his hips and drives in quicker, snapping his hips against Geralt’s and rolling him into Yennefer. The sorceress moans. “You like it when your bard fills you up? You do, don’t you? You look good together. And you feel so good inside of me, sweet thing. I can feel how close you are. Come for us, darling. Let us feel how good you are.”

Geralt’s breath stills with the rest of him. Jaskier moans at the impossibly tight heat clenching around him as Geralt comes. He rocks their hips, burying the Witcher into Yennefer. The sorceress moans, gathering Geralt close to her and feeling him empty inside of her. Her eyes glaze over and roll to the back of her head as he languishes in the feeling.

Jaskier sets a hand against the small of Geralt’s back. He’s rock hard and everything in his body is telling him to keep going; fuck into the tight, wet body around him and earn his own release. But he glances up, hoping to meet the sorceress. And when he does, when violet eyes blink down at him and regard him for a moment, he groans. “Please, Yennefer,” he whines, pressing his hips against Geralt’s, delving his cock deeper. Geralt moans against her neck.

Yennefer clicks her tongue. “It’s alright, bard,” she lulls, turning her attention back on to Geralt. “Do you think you can keep taking him? I know your sensitive, sweet thing, but he’s desperate to fill you again.”

Jaskier groans at how Geralt trembles around him.

Yennefer hums. “Good boy,” she lulls, glancing at Jaskier over Geralt’s shoulder. With the Witcher gathered close, hugged to her, she nods. “Fill him up, bard. He deserves his reward, don’t you think?”

 _Yes_. The word is caught in his throat, but they all know he means to say it. Geralt, gods bless him, rocks back against every thrust Jaskier makes. The bard’s breath thins as he can feel the edge coming. He fucks into the Witcher, bowing over him and setting his hands into the bedsheets on either side of the joining of bodies. His knuckles turn white as he thrusts turn harsher and harsher.

Yennefer’s breath thins. “Good boy, little lark,” she lilts. “Empty yourself in him. He’s desperate for you, do you feel him?”

 _Yes, yes, gods alive, I can_ —

When Jaskier comes, his fists knot into the bedsheets and his hips still flush against Geralt’s. The Witcher’s groan mixes with his as Jaskier floods him again, adding to the mess already left inside from earlier. _Melitele keep him, how long are they going to be at this? He might just die_.

Geralt pushes back against him, keeping Jaskier as deep as he can. Jaskier releases the sheets from one of his hands, and his fingers cramp and his knuckles ache, but he settles his hand against Geralt’s hips. _Stop fucking doing that, you sadist_.

He collects what he can of his breath. The air in the room is acrid with sweat and the musk of sex. Yennefer stretches out underneath them, reclining into the bed. A loose, languid smile curls her lips. “My good boys,” she murmurs, curling her fingers into Geralt’s hair and pressing a chaste kiss to the Witcher’s brow. It smoothes out the skin and shakes away the last tense frown gathered there. Geralt slumps against Yennefer.

The moment Jaskier slips out of him, he whines and tries to lift his head, looking for where his songbird has flown off too. He hasn’t gone far, grabbing an already soiled shirt from the ground and cleaning up whatever he can of all of them.

Yennefer bundles Geralt against her, soothing words against his ear. “He’ll be back soon,” she murmurs, keeping the peace while Jaskier chucks the shirt away and shuffles into a space made for him on the bed. The bed is more than big enough for all of them. It’s just a matter of where they fit with each other. Some nights, when Yennefer’s legs refuse to bring her to her own chambers, she likes to keep to the outside of the bed while Geralt and Jaskier coil together. Other times, Jaskier has woken up gathered between both of them.

Tonight, he all but collapses beside Yennefer, curling into her side and coiling an arm around her waist. It’s a tough battle for it, considering Geralt is still very much slumped over her. He can only assume he’s slipped out of her and is just resting, half-asleep already. Jaskier grunts, pushing lightly at the swell of the Witcher’s shoulder. “Move,” he mutters, burrowing into Yennefer’s side. “You’re hogging the witch.”

Yennefer’s laugh is lithe and light. She turns her head just enough for a fresh wisp of her perfume and scent to wash over him. Jaskier hums, burrowing closer. The sorceress’ hands map over Geralt’s bare shoulders and back, luring him deeper into sleep. Jaskier knows he’s gone when he’s completely slumped against Yennefer, pressing her firmly down into the mattress.

He huffs against her shoulder. “Guess you’re stuck here for the night,” he reasons, a mock-sadness tinting his voice.

Yennefer hums, considering her options. “Looks like it,” she sighs, but the corners of her lips quirk up. The crackling hearth nearby and combined heat of all of them is enough to ward the worst of the chill away. Someone really should get the blankets from the foot of the bed, but as soon as the thought passes through Jaskier’s mind, he can feel both of them drifting off, keen to meet Geralt, wherever he’s wandered off to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer: "Sex is fine, but absolutely NO ROMANTIC FEELINGS! Okay? Okay."  
> Also Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer: "Move over, it's my turn to cuddle Yennefer."
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> Yennefer of Vengerberg, the Greatest of Wing-Women. Her methods may be sus but she gets the job done. 
> 
> ✨ Bottom Geralt Rights ✨  
> ✨ Yennefer of Vengerberg Pegging Rights ✨  
> ✨ Jaskier Is A Fun Drunk Rights ✨
> 
> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly welcomed and appreciated x


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